


Wicked Game

by AgentCoop, Salmon95



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, BDSM, Blackmail, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dissociation, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Handcuffs, Living Together, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Model Ash, NSFW Art, Psychological Horror, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Coercion, Shower Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, it's not all violence, photographer max, there's sweet cuddling also!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon95/pseuds/Salmon95
Summary: In a world where sex is currency and looks are everything, Max finds himself dragged deep into a vicious circle of lust and violence by a young, unassuming model.Ash is beautiful, perfect...deadly.How long can their relationship last before Ash's past catches up to him, and Max finds himself in too deep?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank the incredible [Salmon](http://twitter.com/sushisalmon95), whose stunning art and incredible head canons inspired this entire work. I'm so excited to help bring these ideas to life.
> 
> Thank you also to [Myka](http://twitter.com/mykafl) who ripped my words to pieces and put them back again in the absolute best way possible. This story is so much better for her amazing work. <3 <3 <3
> 
> And thank you to [WickedSeraph](http://twitter.com/wicked_seraph), for cheerleading and beta-reading and being just an amazing positive force in the fandom!

__

_March 16, 2016_

_There’s something wrong with me._

_It’s not so much a feeling as a heavy, unflinching **knowledge** of wrongness. Ever since that night, the simple act of breathing is wrong, it's a desperate fluttering of my lungs trying to inhale through an impossible density. My movements feel jerky—a caricature of normalcy, as though a puppeteer holds my strings. Even my thoughts are slow and languid, as though they have to push through a liquid barrier just to have a voice _

_It’s as though my entire body has been taken over by some unseen force. I can’t move without explicit permission from the foulness in my gut._

_I’m not scared, exactly._

_It’s just...different. Unrelenting. I have no choice but to keep moving and hope that wherever I end up isn’t too far from where I began._

__

“You’re late.”

Max grinned charmingly at the short blonde woman with a flash of teeth. “Not like they’re gonna start without me, Alison,” he responded, pulling the straps of his camera cases back over his shoulder, then wrinkling his nose as they immediately slid back off again.

“I assume you know where you’re going,” Alison said, not even looking up past her clipboard.

His grin had been wasted.

This was particularly unfortunate as his temples had finally quit their discordant pounding from the remnants of the morning’s hangover, and any minor motion of his face was entirely likely to trigger a return of that unceasing, rhythmic pulse. “Yeah,” he muttered, brushing past her, dragging his suitcase of equipment along behind him. “I know.”

The building was a restored private social club from the 1880s. In the way of clients that have all together too much money, and too many CEOs stirring the pot, GQ Magazine had changed course at the last possible moment, requesting that the _2019’s Most Beautiful People_ feature be moved from virginal white studio shoot, to one of smoky darkness, and lustful sin. They were lucky to have gotten this particular venue on such short notice; it was wedding season and the current trend in L.A. Wedding Couture was ‘rustic hipster’.’

Max didn’t actually care where the _damn shoot_ happened, or how the _damn shoot_ happened, or what the models wore to the _damn shoot_ as it happened. He just showed up to the set when he was asked. He didn’t care if he was there to shoot models, television stars, or the occasional ridiculously overpriced wedding. He got paid well, he supported his family, and, unlike his last high-paying job, it was work that didn’t result in him getting high out of his fucking mind and slitting his wrists from the comfort of a small bathtub in a five star resort hotel in Northern Africa.

Regardless, the space was nice—though deep in the Hollywood district. The interior was a curious juxtaposition, boasting great halls that contained some of the original woodworking, as well as a few more modernized spaces including a full restaurant and lounge . It was known for attracting high-end celebrities in secret—it was even rumored to have a secret underground entrance rumored to be over two miles long.

Which was ridiculous. Anyone who thought they needed a two-mile secret entryway to an exclusive club was most likely a complete douche and deserved to have the paparazzi up in their faces.

Max nodded his greeting at the hair and makeup team, chairs already empty, as he passed them by the entryway, then pushed his way into the elevator, along with two members of the catering team.

“Donuts?” he asked hopefully.

They both eyed him with an unbridled curiosity. “Uh…” one of them started. “Fresh fruit?”

“Damn it,” Max said, running a hand through his hair, then shrugging the straps back into place again. His cameras were heavy. They were a pain in the ass to lug around but all told, his equipment cost more than some of the luxury sports cars the Hollywood elite drove around, so he wasn’t complaining.

Much.

“Fucking models,” he sighed.

The caterers looked at each other, then back at him, then promptly forward, eyes towards the screen on the top of the car that showed the ascending numbers—deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“Right,” Max murmured and turned around.

The doors opened onto a gloriously ornate fourth floor. To his right was a cigar bar—currently locked away behind the sheen of frosted glass doors. To his left, the Presidential Ballroom—a gorgeously rebuilt space complete with an enormous old maple wood fireplace at the head of the hall. Max walked to the entrance of the ballroom, noted the chattering of models and agents all sitting around and waiting, and finally released his hold on the heavy suitcase he’d been dragging behind him. Crouching down, he started zipping open cases looking for lenses.

A tall, red-haired woman stepped up beside him, her four inch Manolo Blahnik heels directly in his line of vision. “You,”she said, tapping incessantly at another clipboard, “are late.”

“So I’ve been told, _babe_ ,” Max replied, not looking up, just running the pads of his fingers over the lenses in front of him, considering his first pick. “I assume they’re all ready,” he added, finally selecting the perfect one and screwing it onto his Canon EOS 5D. “And I assume the timeline you sent over last week is still correct and I’m shooting the group in the hall.” He stood at her curt nod, shrugging into the leather harness, and began hooking everything in place.

“Lobo, I swear to Christ, If you fucking call me babe one more time, I’m filing a harassment suit with the dep—”

“So I’ve been told, _Evelyn_ ,” Max interrupted. Looking up and giving her another grin even as his temples began to pound.

“They’ve been ready since ten, which, might I remind you, was shoot time. Call time was seven. I hope you enjoyed your morning rest,” she huffed, then turned and clacked back down the hallway.

Max spared a look up at the overhead clock that was ticking away seconds in an obnoxiously steady manner. 10:46 a.m. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the headache that had finally come to fruition.

True to her word, there were ten of ‘America’s Most Beautiful People’ clumped together, gossiping animatedly at the back of the room as they leaned across the refurbished bar.

Max cleared his throat. “Uhh...hey.”

Two girls looked his way, eyebrows raised in silent judgment. The rest ignored him.

“Hey. We doing this or not?” Max tried again, even louder. “I take it you’ve all been paid already just to show up, so let’s get this show on the road.”

A few of the men wandered towards him, looking for direction, and Max started positioning them all on and around a large ornamental couch. They all wore some variation of a tux--some in leather, some in soft silk, some in velvet. A few of the girls sat, also dressed entirely in black. They splayed across the cushions, their chiffon and silk clinging to every curve of their bodies. Two more of the men crouched on the floor in front and another woman leaned her hip against the arm, and three men stood behind, angled against each other. After everyone was positioned, there was one last spot between the last two girls at the arm of the couch and one model left still sitting at the bar.

“Hey! Kid! You planning on working today?”

The model in question slid slowly from his perch on the bar stool, then stood, head cocked and staring balefully towards him.

Max recognized him instantly. The most lauded up-and-coming model of the past year.

Stunningly handsome, and impossibly talented—a chameleon in front of the camera.

Ash Lynx.

Max walked over without saying another word, grabbed at his suit jacket, and pulled him towards the group without even glancing up.

“Feisty,” the kid said, yanking his arm from Max’s grip. “Just tell me where you want me.”

There was musical lilt to his voice that dripped thickly, like syrup. Max couldn’t help but look down to see dazzling green eyes, flashing in irritation.

He’d heard stories of the kid, hushed and whispered words of his talent, of his darkness, of his past. He’d entered the modeling world at fourteen, and had quickly risen, working international shoots within a year. Some claimed it was entirely due to the help of an insanely rich foster father who stopped at nothing to further Ash’s career. Others cited pure talent and an instinct for the camera that called to mind movie stars of the 20s and 30s.

Either way, he was already proving to be a pain in the ass.

“By the couch,” Max said, gruffly, already irritated by the way the kid had shrugged off his initial direction. “In the middle of it all. Drape—” he cut off, short. Ash had already circled the couch, nudged the other men out of the way, and spread his arms, hands perched on either corner, fingers splayed wide. The other models huffed in frustration but Max quickly had them back up to the side of the couch, in balance with the rest of the group.

It didn’t matter.

Despite there being twelve models positioned in the frame, Ash glowed with some sort of fiery aura that demanded the attention of a camera. Each line his body made was drawn perfectly taut, each flicker of movement from a breath or a swallow perfectly graceful.

His eyes were feral, jade green, flickering in the dusty fractured light that poured in the room through stained glass windows. His face was pure and boyishly beautiful, but those _eyes._ They were too old—too dark. Possessive and absolutely alluring.

“Ready, yet?” Ash asked, the syllables dropping from his mouth like beads of liquid.

Max shook his head once, blinked away the unease, and lifted his camera. “Look here,” he said, holding a finger up beside his ear before beginning to snap shots. He circled them, up close, then further away, calling out to each as necessary to further the mood of the composition. Through it all, Ash remained still, barely moving at all, yet his eyes seemed to grow with power at every click of the camera.

Max ran upstairs once, to the small balcony overlooking the room, so that he could lean down to catch a few shots from overhead. Even when Ash looked up, his golden blond hair falling in perfect wisps across his forehead, he stole every shot.

His mouth was gloriously swollen, as though just pulled from some carnal fantasy and Max could barely breathe with it.

He was a devil, a demon, an angel. Something no longer human.

Hours passed, and still Max shot, possessed, feverish with the passion of the group. Then, at precisely 1 p.m., Evelyn made her way back into the room and called for lunch.

The group moved—relaxed and unhurried in their repositioning of limbs—and conversation picked up again.

It was all a buzz in Max’s ears. All background noise behind the sheer glow of the Lynx in his element. Max unwittingly followed Ash to the craft service table that was set up in the hallway, where he watched him in silence for a moment. Then he moved in closer, reaching an arm past Ash and skewering a piece of cantaloupe. The juice exploded as he bit down, and Max swallowed, holding a hand up to his lips to wipe away the excess. “GQ Magazine,” he said quietly. “Most Beautiful People. Quite a label to carry as a young model amongst movie stars.”

Ash watched him, an eyebrow crooking haphazardly at his brow. “Your point?” he asked, clearly unimpressed.

Max wrinkled his nose, then held out a hand. “Max Lobo,” he said. “Photographer for GQ.”

“Yeah,” Ash replied, not returning the handshake. “I know who you are.”

“Right. Well…” Max dropped his hand, flustered and unsure. “I—”

“Your fashion photography could use some work. There’s a reason they’re not hiring you for international shoots.” Ash said. His delivery of this ultimate rebuke of Max’s talent was done with no more concern than he might have had at squishing an ant between his fingers. He looked past Max, towards the glow of the stained glass, then turned suddenly, catching his eye once more. “Your work in Gaza, though? That was good.”

Max froze. Somewhere in the distance, a peel of laughter rang out, and the background conversation went on and on and on and none of them were discussing politics, none of them were discussing war, none of them were discussing the personal failings of Max Glenreed.

There was a tinkling of laughter from behind them, and Ash’s devilish smile grew. “Pity you fucked it up with a shitty suicide attempt,” he said, honeyed poison coating the words.

There was a roaring in Max’s ears and he was too hot, too stationary, too present. He reached for the collar of his shirt and tugged at it, trying to ignore the heat that was crawling from his chest to his neck to his ears. “I…” he started, then swallowed thickly. “How,” he tried again but everything was shaking loose.

“How’d I know who you were?” Ash asked.

The boy’s smile had quirked upward, carving wickedly up his face. He was beautiful, and graceful, and absolutely terrifying. Max felt as though if he spoke, his words might be siphoned away, eaten, devoured. If he wasn’t careful, he might begin to let slip pieces of his soul.

Ash was drumming his fingers along the edge of the craft-services table. “Not exactly hard to put together. Your picture was all over the papers. First for the Pulitzer. Great job on that by the way,” he said, reaching over for a ripe strawberry. He placed it perfectly on the tip of his tongue and began to chew. “Then for, well… I suppose you already know.”

 _ **Pulitzer Prize Winning Photojournalist Found After Apparent Suicide Attempt**_ , the news had said.

_You were weak. You were nothing._

A thin line of strawberry juice dripped from Ash’s mouth. He pressed a finger to it, swiping upward and catching it. His eyes never left Max, they were still boring holes straight through his body. He opened his mouth the smallest amount, then sucked the finger clean.

It was lewd. Outrageous. Insanely provocative.

And Max couldn’t look away.

“Anyway,” Ash said with a grin. “Good to see you among the living. Even if this is a piss poor replacement of a job.” He sidled up to Max then, reaching a hand out and wrapping it coyly around Max’s neck, bringing his head down. “You still have some juice on your upper lip,” he whispered, tonguing at the shell of Max’s ear. “Looks sticky.” Then he pressed a napkin into Max’s hand, and flounced away, impossibly confident, arrestingly exotic.

Max blinked.

He held the napkin up to his mouth and wiped. It came away with a spot of wetness—just a drop of juice.

“Getting everything you need?” a voice perked up from behind him.

He turned to find Evelyn there, wisps of hair falling from her glorious updo, nails clicking on the clipboard. She still wasn’t looking at him, was instead reading through the schedule for the afternoon.

“Ah, yeah,” Max tried. His voice sounded weak in his ears. “I’ll be right back. Just need some fresh air.” He brushed past her, scratching at his neck and trying to breathe.

“Places are at two!” she called after him. “Don’t you dare be late again, Max!”

He threw up a hand in what he hoped was a somewhat friendly gesture of affirmation, then turned down the hall, towards the door with the large red _Exit_ sign, pushed through it and started to run down the stairs.

It was 9 P.M. when the shoot wrapped for the day. There were no more awkward conversations, no more hints at his true identity, not even any eye-contact with the infamous Lynx. Ash was perfectly professional the rest of the day, obeying instructions, moving from couch to hearth to bar, and delivering some of the most sultry glances towards the camera Max had ever seen.

He didn’t approach Max again—in fact, stayed far away from him.

Max wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to berate the kid, explain the circumstances behind his professional ‘disappearance’ as it were, or run, screaming from L.A. and never return. Either way, as the shoot wrapped and call times for the next morning were shouted at crew members, he felt distinctly unsettled. Unmoored. Aimless in a way that scared him, empty in a way that was all too familiar.

He packed his equipment silently, smiling tightly at anyone who caught his eye. Then, he slipped from the building, dialed an Uber to take him home, and cursed that he’d been too hungover to drive himself in to town that morning.

In a way, the ride was a relief. The driver was unusually chatty, and talked incessantly about the new coach for the Lakers and what a mess the team was proving to be this year. Max half listened, using the buzz of the chatter to ignore the burning desperation that was rising in his gut—the want for something to erase the feeling of unease that seemed to want to burst from his body.

Once home, he lugged his equipment in, carefully placing everything away in its rightful place. The house was silent—most likely Jessica and Michael had already been asleep for a good hour. There was a note on the kitchen counter, scrawled in Jessica’s impossible cursive.

There was something ominous about it, about the dangerously deep imprint that the period left on the page, about the vertical strokes the pen made.

She was angry again.

This wasn’t unusual. This was a constancy in Max’s life—one he knew very well how to deal with. He skipped the fridge, and went right to the liquor cabinet, pulling out the bottle of Evan Williams and noting with displeasure its half-empty status.

He didn’t remember drinking that much last night.

This thought niggled at him, poked and prodded in all of his most sore places. He shouldn’t be doing this. He needed sleep, he needed rest, he needed to be on time for the fucking second day of the shoot or he was going to find himself without a job and then who knew what Jessica was capable of.

Still, he unscrewed the cap and poured it into a low ball glass, filling it almost entirely to the rim and setting the bottle on the counter. He drank, downing almost half of the glass. Then he looked over to the bottle, judged it particularly lonely and picked it up, taking both it and the empty glass along with him to his study.

The warm fuzz of the alcohol was quickly starting to take effect due to Max not eating a proper meal all day. This, he enjoyed. This, he relished. The heady rush of inebriation, the joyous ascent of happiness, before the angry drunken culpability began to set in. He settled into his office chair, turning on his computer and unpacking his camera. Hooking the USB up, he finished off the glass of whiskey while he waited for the folder to open, then poured another glassful and began to click through images.

There was a dark unease settling on him, weighing like a heavy blanket. He couldn’t shrug it off. The alcohol was numbing it, but still, as images flashed by in front of him, he couldn’t help a shudder.

Those green eyes.

They were in every photo, dazzling and hooded and full of depth. Max had a hard time even looking at the other models in the shoot—Ash Lynx was that powerful. His hair shone golden in the photos, his skin a flawless porcelain, but it was the eyes every time. They were watching Max. Studying him.

A familiar flutter of heat began in his stomach and Max groaned.

He couldn’t do this.

The kid was what…nineteen? Twenty?

_“Looks sticky…”_

Max shuddered. His vision was starting to swim, he was descending now into that pool of regret.

 _“Looks sticky,”_ Ash had whispered.

He was half hard already. Max let his hand rest against the flat of his abdomen, let his fingers drift lazily at the sensitive skin. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Imagined Ash’s lips at his ear. His tongue at his temple. Licking a stripe up his neck.

He let his hand drift lower, underneath his pants, pressing under the waistband of his boxer briefs. His cock was thick and hard, already dripping with pre-cum, and Max moaned as he took it in hand.

 _Sticky_ , Ash whispered.

He stroked himself, slowly at first, then faster, listening to the wetness slap between his palm and his cock. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I want…”

He didn’t know what he wanted.

_Sticky…_

He heard it again, the syllables thick on Ash’s tongue, round like jewels, like beads. “Gonna make you cum,” he murmured to himself, hand moving faster now. He was close already, impossibly so, given how much whiskey was running through his system. “Oh god,” he groaned. “Oh fuck…fuck….fuck—”

His orgasm hit hard, spurting between his fingers, coating his pants, his hand, his desk. “Oh fuck,” he said again, breathing hard with it.

Somewhere, deep within the confines of his mind, Ash laughed, sucking a finger, then two, his tongue pink and sultry.

“Oh god,” Max panted. He fell back in his chair, ignoring the sticky mess that was cooling on his his belly. The image of Ash, staring at him from the couch flickered once in his vision, then went black as his screensaver popped on. Max groaned again, pressing his clean hand against his eyes. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

This broke something within him. Something deeply visceral, something he’d been trying to desperately hold at bay.

With a heavy shudder of breath, Max started to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for bearing with us through the wait! The first chapter was of a reasonable length, but everything else at this point is enormous so they tend to be a beast to edit! I am really going to try to stay on the 2 week posting schedule at this point though!
> 
> Thank you also to [Myka](http://twitter.com/mykafl) who's been amazing at making my words SO MUCH BETTER. <3 <3 <3
> 
> A huge thank you and all my love to [Salmon](http://twitter.com/sushisalmon95) who not only has created the most stunning art I've ever seen for this, but also puts up with my constant Max/Ash screaming in her DMs <3

__

_April 4, 2017_

_I remember._

_For so long, I’ve woken up, lost and unsure and no longer certain of my actions. I can’t recall anything. It’s only small fragments of time lost, but it’s terrifying. It’s brought on by trauma—at least **he** says that—but I can’t bring myself to face it head on. I’m too quiet, though my soul is screaming, and it washes over me, the hate, the disgust–oily and black. I’m a pathetic, uncertain creature in its wake._

_But I remember now._

_I see bits and pieces, watch as time unfolds around me. I’m stronger, but my voice against the demon is still a small thing, battered constantly by enormous waves. I won’t last long under the barrage of hate._

_When I wake from it, I’m sick. Visions clatter about my head and I don’t know which are memories and which are dreams._

_I worry that soon, all fragments of me will be buried under the weight of all this dirt._

__

“Max.”

There was a _thump_ , and then everything shook for a moment. Lifting his head from his arms, Max blinked his eyes open, bleary and confused.

“Max!”

“Jessica,” he murmured, then slumped back over the desk. Another _thump,_ another quick quake of movement, and he lifted his head just enough to see her kick the desk leg a third time. _Thump_. Max groaned. “You’re gonna ruin your shoes.”

“Fuck the shoes,” she said. “It’s seven and I’m leaving. You’re calltime was supposed to be now. Get up.”

“Fuck…” Max mumbled, finally sitting up and running a hand through his hair. It was greasy and unkempt—exactly what he’d expect from getting completely wasted and passing out in his office for the night. “Fuck,” he said again.

“I’m taking Michael to my parents tonight,” Jessica said, crossing her arms in front of her. Her voice was clear as a bell, and he looked up to see the way her eyes tightened. Sorrow, or irritation, or even pity.

Max hated it.

“Yeah,” he responded quietly. “Okay.”

She glowered at him, irritation winning by a landslide. “Your son hasn’t seen you in a week. Do you think you could manage an attempt at showing up for dinner?”

Max blinked. “At…your parents?”

Jessica sighed, then leaned against the desk. Her pencil skirt bunch up slightly and her long legs gracefully crossed in front of his face.

He so badly wanted to feel something, feel anything, at the glorious expanse of thigh that was peeking out from under the fabric. Instead, he shivered, the memory of Ash’s arms thrown round his neck.

“Yes,” she said. She took her iPhone from her purse and began tapping at the screen, long, lacquered nails clicking. “We’ll be eating at five. Dessert and presents after.”

“Presents?”

She thrust her phone back into her purse and gave him a curious look, irritation fading. “Michael,” she repeated. “It’s his birthday.”

“Fuck,” Max groaned for the third time. He grabbed at his hair, pulling, trying to ignore the throbbing at his temples from the building hangover. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I know, yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Oh, Max,” she murmured.

This was most definitely pity, and Max found himself unable to meet her eyes. Instead, he rubbed at the dark stain of a spot on his pants with a fingernail, back and forth, back and forth, watching a crusty white dust detach from the fabric fibers. “Don’t,” he murmured softly.

“What’s happening to us?” she mused, looking up at the ceiling, then over to the bookshelf.

This was a remnant of their past life, an old Ikea fixture, built by Max in the bedroom of their first shitty apartment back in Chicago. He could still remember the wine that night, the laughter, the teasing, the joy. He’d managed to attach the very top board of the middle shelf backwards, and, like every other Ikea failure in his life, he informed Jessica that under no uncertain circumstances was he planning on fixing it. They raised them together, slotting the three six-foot-tall units against the wall, and then they crammed each cubby hole full of books. Entire shelves were devoted to Max’s fantasy series, and texts from college; others were completely Jessica’s, filled with biographies and non-fiction. They’d kept the shelves through every move, and now, they stood—hauntingly familiar, decidedly sloped under the burden of thousands of pages.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure what was required.

She reached out a hand and placed it on top of Max’s. “I miss you,” she said. This was a simple thing—a statement of fact.

Her eyes were serious, and Max watched her blink once, then twice. “I’m sorry,” he said again, always repeating, always sorry, always sorry, always sorry.

She sighed, removing her hand. “Don’t you dare show up drunk,” she said, standing. “You’re a mess. I can’t keep saving you. We’re running out of chances.”

With that, she turned and left the office—the double doors swinging closed behind her small frame.

Max closed his eyes, but all he could hear was Ash’s voice.

“Nice try,” Evelyn shouted, as he pushed past her, near running to the elevator.

The doors shut just as he got there, and no amount of pressing the down arrow set them to re-opening. “Damn it,” he hissed.

The click of heels stopped behind him. “8:30,” Evelyn said. “Not as bad as yesterday. Still late.”

“Something came up,” he tried. “Michael needed a ride to school, he missed the bus.”

She eyed him, eyebrows raised. “I’d be more inclined to believe you, were that not the same excuse you used last week. Two days in a row, I believe.”

Max grinned at her and shrugged. “He enjoys sleeping in,” he tried. “I can’t say as I blame him!”

Evelyn watched him without saying another word, her eyes narrowed and focused.

The elevator doors opened, and Max stood aside to let her in first, then followed with his armfuls of bags and equipment. He tried to peer over her shoulder to study the clipboard, but she flipped the pages down with a smack and glared at him. “Just checking!” he said, dropping the handle of a suitcase and raising both hands in mock apology.

“Hmmph,” she snorted. “I certainly hope you’ve looked at the schedule far before right now.”

“I’m working the women today.” Max leaned against the side of the elevator. “All six of them. Individual shots first, then group in the afternoon. I’m quite prepared. Would you like to see a resume?” He smirked at her.

Evelyn rolled her eyes as the elevator shuddered to a stop, door opening on the fourth floor once more. “As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Hey!” Max called after her. “Where are the men?”

“Arcade room. In with lighting and makeup right now.”

The doors closed on her pinched face.

Max considered this, even as the elevator began to move once more, carrying him to the rooftop where the women were waiting. The arcade room was next to the cigar lounge and the cigar lounge…

_sensual trails of smoke…_

_Ash Lynx…_

He smiled as the doors opened.

He smiled as he posed model after model after model.

He smiled as his back grew sore with the weight of his cameras, and as the worn calluses on his fingers grew tired of clicking buttons, turning dials, rubbing against plastic.

_Ash Lynx…_

The sun was beginning to set over the city as he finished the last of the shots, and still, all he could think about was the burgeoning seed of an idea—a spread featuring Ash, splayed on the leather couch, cigar at his lips, tuxedo dark and pressed and perfect and jade eyes glowing. He hurriedly packed away his equipment and entered the elevator. His finger hovered for just a moment of indecision over the buttons, then he pressed the four, watching it light up under his fingertip. There was something squirming deep within him, a fluttering of excitement, a thrill of uncertainty.

The doors opened and he walked down the hall, passing a group of interns packing up linens and dishes from craft services, all the way to the clear glass doors of the lounge, only to find them locked.

“Did you need something?” one of the men called out.

“I…” Max started. He looked back the other direction, but no one was in the ballroom either. “Did they wrap already?”

“Yup,” the young man said. “Looking for someone?”

Color was rushing to Max’s cheeks, hot and humiliating. “Oh…uh…no. Just looking for one of the models.” He watched the man grab at a cracker from one of the leftover plates and start chewing.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Uh…” Max paused for a moment, then decided to take into account the fact that he was the lead photographer for GQ on a project featuring said models and he had every right to ask after one of them if they weren’t in a particular place at a particular time. “Ash Lynx,” he stated, suddenly more confident. “Need to go over placement for his shoot tomorrow.”

There was no shoot tomorrow.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

Everyone was off on Saturday.

Max wrinkled his nose and bit his lip hard, supremely pissed off that he couldn’t even lie right.

“Oh!” the kid said, eager now. “I mean, he definitely already left. But it’s Friday, yeah?”

Max nodded along, trying to appear nonchalant, trying to appear…well…suave. Or something.

“He’ll be at the Black Orchid then. It’s a pretty popular place for ‘em all once they get off.” He leaned in conspiratorially as if he and he alone had been trusted with this incredible token of information. “It’s kinda underground,” he whispered. “Ya know. Drugs and stuff.”

“Right,” Max said. A bead of sweat rolled from his neck to the dip of his shoulder blades and he itched to move. He stayed still. Frozen. As though a lack of movement might inspire the kid to elaborate even further.

“Oh!” the kid said, “Here. I gotta matchbox somewhere.”

Max watched as he dug through the pockets of his cheaply woven black pants, coming up with a fistful of bar matchbooks.

“Okay, I know it’s one of these,” he mumbled, flipping through them.

Max raised an eyebrow, still silent, refraining from commenting how extremely...curious it was that this kid kept a pocket full of matchbooks during business hours.

“Here!” he pressed a book into Max’s palm and grinned. “That’s the place. He’s always there. He’s…well…kind of a favorite if you get my meaning.” At this, he winked.

“Right…” Max replied. He most decidedly did _not_ get his meaning. “Uh, thanks?”

“No problem!” the kid saluted, then went back to foraging from the discarded plates.

Max pocketed the matchbook. He frowned, irritated at himself for taking so long with the women. Irritated at himself for being irritated at taking so long because this was his fucking job and god damn, at least he could try. Irritated at himself for how he considered, for the briefest moment, going to the bar, ordering a drink, and watching from the shadows for a gleam of jade.

Then he glanced up at the clock on the far wall that was ticking, ticking, ticking, and, very clearly, showing 6:08 P.M.

“Oh fuck,” he murmured, heart beginning to race. “Oh fuck, Michael, god damn it!”

He called Jessica on the way to the parking lot and listened as it transferred directly to here delightfully pert voicemail. He called her again once he was in his car, and again five minutes after that.

The freeway was a parking lot and it took him over an hour to go five miles, and all the while he called her and called her and called her.

At 7:15 she picked up. Her voice was unrelentingly _not_ pert and Max could feel her anger radiating through the phone that he held to his ear.

“Don’t fucking come.”

“Jessica, wait, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, work ran late—”

“Don’t,” she said.

It was final. It was impervious to needling, to pleading, to begging. There was nothing he could do. Max pinched his eyes closed for a moment, holding a fist to his forehead, and managing (with an incredibly amount of restraint) not to lay on the horn until someone fucking moved. “I’m coming, Jessica,” he said, coaxing the ‘reliable father’ voice to come forth. “I want to see him, work ran late, I can be there in twenty minutes.”

(This was a lie, but, in a long marriage built atop a mountain of unending, wriggling deceits, it seemed entirely within reason.)

“Don’t,” she hissed again. “Do. Not. I…”

She broke off for a moment, and Max experienced a horribly nasty sensation settling down in the depths of his stomach. Guilt, and self-hatred, and, most intensely, fear.

“I’m sorry, Max,” she continued.

Jessica never apologized. This was one constant in their lives. Unless she so happened to be the sole responsible harbinger of the end of the living world, Jessica did not, would not, could not apologize.

“Jessica,” he tried.

“I can’t anymore, Max.” She sighed this almost sadly, almost regretfully. “We’ll stay with my parents over the weekend and I’ll be by on Monday for our things. Please don’t be there. This is hard enough already.”

He was going to throw up.

He was going to ram his car into the car in front of him and cause that car to ram into the car in front of it and he would just keep going, keep his foot on the gas pedal until he pushed through thousands of tons of sheet metal and the heat of the gasoline melted the skin from his bones.

“Jessica, I—”

“I’m sorry, Max.”

And she hung up.

There was no where for him to go. He was stuck, on the freeway, behind a thousand cars, in front of a thousand cars, and slowly, slowly, slowly they would inch forward through time.

“Fuck,” he said quietly.

The sounds of horns were all around him, angry, and furious.

“Fuck,” he said again, a little louder. He reached for the dial on the car’s radio and turned it up, louder and louder and louder, until his entire body vibrated with noise, until he couldn’t think anymore. The car bounced with the beat, and he bit his lower lip so hard it started to bleed, and every few seconds, he moved another inch.

The house was quiet.

It wasn’t the quiet of the sleeping, or the quiet of the lived in, but rather the quiet of nothingness, of the dead, of the damned.

He stood in Michael’s room for a while, walking the edges, along the shelving units. Letting the pads of his fingers drift lazily along the trophies and medals and balls. Little League, and Cub Scouts, and travel soccer, and chess. Michael excelled in chaos and Max loved every minute of it.

He sat on Michaels bed for a moment, listening to the birds outside, the chirping and warbling of spring love.

Then he stood, and made his way to the kitchen.

The granite counters were sparkled as the setting sun peeked in through the windows. The kitchen was spotless as always, as though no one even lived there.

He supposed, at this point, that no one really did.

Opening the fridge, Max scanned the contents with a half-hearted glance. Then he turned to the pantry, knelt down, and dug through the bottom shelf for a bottle of liquor. He stood up again with his prize—an old bottle of Hennessey Gin that he and Jessica had been gifted years prior. He scowled at it a moment. Gin wasn’t his favorite, wasn’t even in his top twenty choices of alcoholic beverages, and it certainly wasn’t anything he enjoyed drinking straight, but unfortunately it seemed he’d been a little looser with the whiskey stash than anticipated and so it was just going to have to do.

He unscrewed the top and started drinking straight from the bottle, flinching at the herbal burn of it only momentarily before swigging again.

There wasn’t much to do in an empty house in the middle of Los Angeles suburbia, at 9 p.m.

He supposed he could work on editing, get a head start on the hundreds of images he’d captured that day.

He supposed he could gulp down half the bottle and spend the rest of the night masturbating. This sounded eerily familiar though, entirely too similar to last night’s thrilling activities and so he wrinkled his nose and went back to thinking.

The gin was starting to take effect, swirling delightfully in his gut, fuzzing his mind and his movements just enough to make the whole ‘you’ve fucked up your life beyond repair’ mantra that was playing over and over in his head seem almost bearable. And just as he lifted the bottle to his lips once more, and just as the sun faded behind a lone cloud throwing the kitchen into eerie shadow, his phone began to ring.

Max fumbled for it in his pockets, and threw it on the counter top, along with numerous receipts, a few spare dollars from the parking meter, and a shiny black matchbook with the words Black Orchid embossed on the front cover.

He flicked at the green phone symbol on the front of his phone, threw his head back for another large mouthful of gin, then held the phone to his ear. “Yup.”

There was silence for a moment, then a small shiver of sound, of movement. Then, “I heard you were looking for me.”

No introduction. No salutation or greeting or hint to the speaker’s identity. But the voice was liquid, like syrup, like the saccharine taste of dripping honey, saturated and precariously sweet.

“Ash,” Max said. He reached out and gripped the counter, as though the world were tipping and he might, unexpectedly, tumble.

“So?” Ash said. “Was there something you…needed?”

Max could hear the quirk of his grin on the other end, hear the confident lilt of his tongue. “I was…I just…” He wasn’t sure exactly what the correct response was in this sort of situation. Perhaps he should decline, explain that he only wanted to discuss the staging of Monday’s shoot. Perhaps he could laugh in a witty, gentlemanly way, and play it off as though it were nothing.

Certainly he should apologize for causing any undue stress.

Certainly he should not be thinking of the photo from last night, the one where Ash stretched languidly across the couch and stared daggers through him with jade green eyes.

Absolutely, certainly he should steer clear of topics involving masturbation, the word ‘ _sticky_ ’ as whispered by the Lynx himself, and the memory of last night’s impressively long cum shot brought on by the memory of Ash’s voice. (While he maintained a certain masculine pride regarding their longitudinal distance, this did _not_ make for appropriate business conversation.)

“How’d you get my number?” he settled on.

“So you did want to speak with me.”

This wasn’t so much a question as an alluring statement. Max found himself very much wanting to watch Ash on the other line, watch the way he held the phone to his ear gracefully, watch the way his lips moved as he spoke. “I…suppose.” Max said, lamely.

“I’m going out tonight,” Ash said. “I’ll be at the Black Orchid around ten. If you needed to talk, I’ll save you a dance.”

“I don’t dance.” Max almost regretted it as it slipped from his lips. It sounded too blunt, too rigid, too dad-like. The fact of the matter was, he did dance. He used to dance quite frequently, be it in clubs or in bars or in the living room with the shades drawn and the lights flickering low. It was just that…he danced with Jessica. No one else. There had been no one else for a long time, since...since…

He flinched at the memory of sand biting at his eyes, then he took another long drag of gin.

“Pity,” Ash murmured. “You look as though you’d make a good partner.”

He laughed as he said this, and Max felt that familiar tremor deep within him again. _I’ve got to stop drinking_ , he thought.

Ash sighed on the other end of the line. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I'll just have to find someone else.”

Max very much did _not_ want him to find someone else. He did not want him to find someone else with the burning fury of a thousand suns, and after another pull from the bottle, he slammed down on the granite so hard, the liquid inside sloshed up and trickled down his hand. “I’ll be there,” he said.

The winged butterflies in his stomach beat harder, more furious than ever.

“Oh?” Ash laughed. “Delightful. Perhaps try to hurry. I get particularly hungry on Friday nights.”

There was no possible way in the universe that Ash’s hungry meant the hunger of the food variety.

This was carnal. This was want and desire and lust.

This was danger.

“I’ll be there,” Max repeated.

“Password is pollination,” Ash said with a laugh. Then there was a beep in Max’s ear as the call disconnected.

The Black Orchid.

The swirling embossed letters on the matte black matchbook were upscale, pristine, flawless perfection.

The entrance to the club was through a dark and dismal winding alleyway—nothing upscale, nothing pristine, absolutely nothing perfect about it. Max shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans hooking his fingers around his keyring, and patting at the smooth surface of both phone and wallet as if to remind himself that they were still there—that they hadn’t been made off with by the chaotic will of an incredibly talented pick pocket. The alley was grimy, and he skirted puddles of muck, trying and failing to keep the off-white canvas of his tennis shoes clean. The further down the spiralling maze he went, the more the beat of the bass resonated against the rubber soles of his shoes, traveling up his legs, up his chest, falling back down his arms.

His whole body vibrated with it.

He finally came to the entrance—a thin, descending staircase that led to a very dark, very dismal, and very ‘murdery’ looking metal door. He took the stairs two at a time, and at the bottom, knocked politely, then stood and waited, running a hand through his blond hair.

After a moment, and just as he was getting ready to knock again, a clatter of footsteps came down the narrow walkway.

“You knock already?” One of them asked.

The newcomer was dressed head to toe in tight leather, and he carried a whip with him. As if to add extra ‘oomph’ to his query, he smacked it a few times against his thigh.

Max was certain he was going for terrifying, or intimidating, or possibly even sexy. As it stood, however, Max had to hold back a laugh at the protruding gut from the waist of the tight leather, and the way the whip sparkled in the moonlight—glittery and pink.

“Did you knock?” Another asked—a woman this time, looking young, college-aged, and wearing an extremely inappropriate miniskirt and vest that buttoned so tightly over her enormous cleavage that Max was sure that her breasts would spill free with only the slightest provocation.

“Yeah,” Max answered, “I tried—”

The woman pushed passed him and knocked three times in quick succession, waited two seconds, then knocked another five. Immediately, the door swung open, causing Max to quickly back up a step and crowd close enough to the leather-daddy that he could feel the man breath against the back of his neck.

“Password?” A rather bored, rather gothic looking young man asked.

“Uhh,” Max said, as the other group all said ‘Pollination.”

“Right,” Goth-boy nodded, and just like that, Max was ushered into the club.

The inside was phenomenal—far closer in similarity to the upscale matchbook then to the creepy alley entryway. The floor was a dark wood, and the walls and ceiling were painted in matte black, and matte deep purple, with golden,swirling, petal like figures separating the two colors. There were no chairs, no tables, instead the entire space was circular and revolved around a black crystal bar. As Max walked over to it, threading his way through amorous couples who were grinding at each other in time with music as though there were no tomorrow, there was only tonight, and carnal bliss was best sought by hiking up your skirt or pants and rubbing your genitals together as fervently as possible, he kept an eye out for a flash of blond, but there was no Ash to be seen.

He stepped up to the bar, onto a shining and clear black rock platform, just as the entire wooden floor began to move, circling the bar slowly. There was a loud scream of joy as this happened, and Max noted with surprise that the erotic movements all about had increased in velocity even further.

“What’ll you have, sir?” The bartender asked. He looked Max up and down, then his smile grew as though he particularly liked what he saw. Max scratched at his neck, a compulsive, nervous habit. “Whiskey. Two fingers, neat. And a second one as well.”

The bartender nodded and Max watched as he pulled a bottle of Oban Single Malt from the top shelf, and flinched as he considered the dent this would make in his wallet. Still, he smiled and thanked the bartender, digging in his pocket for his credit card.

“Don’t,” the man said with a smirk. “It’s been paid for.”

Max scratched at his neck harder then. “I’m sorry?”

There was a brush of fingers at the back of his neck and then a whisper at his ear. “You made it. Max Glenreed.”

The sound of his voice threaded through him--whispered insecurity, honeyed lies, the barest hint of the tip of Ash’s tongue against his ear.

Max shuddered. He reached for the first pour of whiskey and tossed it back without so much as a flinch, before doing the same for the second. Then he turned slightly, resting his hip against the black depths of the bar, and watched as Ash came fully into view.

He was dangerously beautiful. A predator of the night. He was wearing only a pair of skin tight leather pants that cut across his waist so severely it pained Max to look, and a thin gold chain, delicate, fragile, draped around his neck and falling at the taut, ivory skin of his bare chest. His hair was falling gently against the sharp lines of his face, freed from the gel and the severe styling of the modeling shoot. He looked younger this way, but still sharp, as though even a brush against his skin might cut deeply.

“Ash,” Max murmured, his voice too loud in his ears, the roaring of heat at his cheeks a humiliating reminder of why he had come.

Ash made a tutting sound, and slid his ID across the bar towards Max.

_Chris Winston._

_Born August 12, 1992_

“You’re not 27,” Max said. “Not even close.”

“Oh?” Ash said, eyebrows raised. “I’m whatever you want me to be, _Daddy._ ”

At this, Max felt a horribly betraying stirring in his groin, a fluttering pleasure that pooled in his gut. “Don’t,” he whispered.

Ash reached up and circled his arms around Max’s neck, drawing him down.

They watched each other for a moment, Ash’s feral green eyes steady and intoxicatingly liquid. Max concentrated on trying to breath, on trying to ignore the sudden rush of alcohol that was causing his limbs to feel cottony, to feel as if they were no longer his own.

Then Ash pulled him even closer and kissed him, deep, and sweet, and his mouth tasted of liquor and oranges, and cigarette smoke. Max chased it, pressing into Ash, opening his mouth to Ash’s tongue, desperate for more, for anything, for all the things, just more, more, more.

Ash pushed him away, then cocked his head—a stray, blond wisp of hair falling across his brow. He turned back to the bar, raised a hand, and within seconds the bartender was there.

There was a singular frequency about Ash, the sort of magnetic pull that had everyone orbiting him as though he were the sun, as though he were a super nova. The bartender winked at Max, then turned back to Ash again. “What would you like, sir?”

Ash flicked a hand in the general direction of the shelves. “The Oban,” he said, simply. “Rest of the bottle. Put it on the tab.”

The bartender reached for it, and passed it over to Ash, never once betraying any emotion but desire to please. “Of course, Mr. Winston,” he said with a smile.

Ash pulled at Max’s arm then and stepped onto the moving floor. The transfer from still, black rock to circling floorboards was dizzying and Max reached out for Ash without thinking, bumping into him and stumbling.

“Careful,” Ash murmured.

The beat and sound and chaos of the music around them swallowed his words, but Max watched as his lips moved, fascinated by their shine, by their plump rouge. Ash pulled him along through the crowds and to the outer edges of the bar, where a single bench encircled the entire floor. This was largely empty still, and somehow, by some magic of the acoustics, the music was softer, allowing for spoken word to penetrate the senses.

“Sit,” Ash said, even as he fell back into the warm leather of the bench.

Max did, following his lead, leaning back and making quite sure that none of his languid limbs were in any danger of brushing Ash’s. “Ash,” he said.

Ash leaned over and held a finger to his lips. “Chris,” he said, plainly, chastising. “Ash is for daylight. Ash is for cameras and gilt laden sets and sunlight. Ash is beautiful, something everyone wants to taste, but no one can.” He leaned back then, smirking with his own cleverness. “Chris is for the darkness. Chris is liquid, Chris is danger, Chris is, you see,” he tapped his fingers at the supple leather, “poison.” He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.

Max was unable to look away—unable to stop watching the bob of his throat with every gulp. “Chris,” he tried, letting the syllables _hiss_ softly.

“Yes,” Chris moaned, tilting his head back even further and handing the bottle over.

Max drank, noting the subtle hint of orange left around the lip of the bottle. He tried to hand it back, but Ash just shook his head.

Instead, he let a hand drop lazily against his chest, circling at a rosy nipple for a moment, then plunging lower, around his navel, further still, until he met the sharp cut of leather. “Wanna play a game?” he whispered.

Max shifted in his seat and licked his lips, uncomfortably aware that he was already half hard. “How old are you? Truly?” he asked.

Ash sighed, and let his hand fall back to the bench. “It’s boring, isn’t it?” he said, staring hard at Max.

His pupils had grown impossibly larger in the last few minutes, and Max couldn’t help but notice how small the ring of bright green now was.

“Boring,” he repeated. “Always following the rules, always holding yourself back.” He took another swallow of whiskey, then he rose to his knees, watching Max. Studying him. Inching closer.

“Ash,” Max tried, his voice thick with alcohol.

And then Ash swung a leg over Max’s hip, straddling him. He reached for Max’s hair and grabbed a fistful, tugging his head to the side, and rolled his hips forward, tight black leather impossibly hot against Max’s denim. He leaned forward and licked a stripe up Max’s neck. “I’m nineteen,” he whispered. “Don’t tell, Daddy.”

Max closed his eyes and groaned—a deep, guttural thing, and then Ash rocked forward again, knees tight at Max’s thighs. He let go of Max, and flattened his palm against his own face, head tilting back, and mouth falling open. The smallest moan of pleasure dropped from his lips and Max was gone.

He was completely gone.

Nothing made sense, this was the absolute pinnacle of terrible ideas in a lifetime of terrible ideas and it didn’t matter. He’d kill to taste Ash’s lips again, his neck, lick the sweat from his bare and glistening chest.

“Fuck,” Max groaned, bucking back into Ash.

“Oh fuck,” Ash moaned, his hand mussing his blond hair further, his eyes closed in pleasure. “Fuck, I want you to—” he rocked again and a bit of whiskey spilled from the bottle, still tight in his grasp.

Max leaned forward chased the liquor, chased the spill of it with his tongue down Ash’s wrist, down his forearm, and then he was wrapping his arms around Ash’s smaller body, pulling them tighter together, and kissing and sucking into that pale, porcelain flesh. Ash continued to rock against him, over and over and over again while his hand dropped back to his own neck, down to his chest, tracing nimble down the sharp cut of his hip bones and past the thin golden trail of hairs that led underneath the leather. He palmed himself then, hand over tight leather straining with the force of his erection.

“Oh fuck,” Max moaned, watching his hand stroke at the bulging leather. He was so hard now, cock straining against the denim, and he watched Ash lift the bottle to his lips again and drink, long, sultry gulps of alcohol. “Fuck,” he said once more, then he grabbed the bottle back, drank till it was empty, then threw it to the side.

There was a clatter of noise as the bottle hit the club floor, but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered right now except for that intoxicating need. Max wanted to hear Ash say his name again. He wanted to hear the word ‘ _Daddy_ ’ fall from his lips. He wanted to curl his mouth around the bud of a nipple and suck until it was red and swollen. He wanted to peel the leather pants from Ash’s small frame and watch as his cock burst free and then he wanted to taste that too, lick at the salty beads of pre come, then swallow him whole.

“Max,” Ash moaned, as if on cue. “Max, I need you to touch me, I need you to fuck me, please, Max, please—”

Max wrapped his arms around Ash’s waist and stood. Ash bit at his neck, at his jawline, licked his way to Max’s mouth and tugged at his lower lip with his teeth and Max was feral with it, desperate with need.

There was a bare pillar just next to them, jutting out from the wall and separating the lounge benches. Max shoved Ash up against the plaster hard, hard enough that he could feel the reverberations of the wall at his feet, but Ash just moaned in pleasure more, tightening his thighs and arms. Max rutted against him here, still fully clothed, sweating from the tight heat of the bar and he was such an idiot to wear a sweater to a club, he was such a fucking idiot to think he was coming here for any other reason but to fuck.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” Ash moaned in his ear.

“Oh Jesus,” Max said against Ash’s throat. He licked at the tender spot right at the dip of his collarbone, smiled with how Ash writhed and moaned with it, then he bent further and sucked a bruise right into the skin.

“Fuck, you’ve gotta—” Ash said, “you’ve gotta fuck me, I”m gonna come, I”m gonna come if you don’t—”

Max threw a hand up against Ash’s mouth, pressing his head back against the wall. “Where?” he asked. _Where_. One single syllable was enough to make his knees watery, was enough to set his heart rabbiting against his chest. Ash grabbed at his wrist, and he let his hand fall, fingers hooking in his lower lip for just a second, coming free wet, and slippery.

“Bathroom,” Ash gasped. He squinted his eyes shut tight for a moment, and unhooked his legs from behind Max.

Max let him slide free, let him stand at the pillar on his own feet for a moment, but still Max leaned forward and braced himself, a hand at either side of Ash’s head. He could smell himself over the smoke of the club now, musty and sweaty, and the faint spice of his deodorant.

“Bathroom,” Ash said again, eyes opening.

His pupils were blown so wide now there was no green left—it was like looking into the face of a demon.

“Bathroom,” Max repeated.

Ash grabbed at his hand and tugged, and then they were pushing through the crowds of people dancing, moving, grinding against each other.

The bathrooms were in the very back hall and Ash pushed his way into the one marked ‘Gentleman’ with a furious and desperate motion. Unlike the rest of the club, this room was filthy—white floors turned brown with age and use, mirrors cracked and fogged. The overhead lights shown dim orange, fading out and crackling in spurts—and the entire place reeked of sex.

There was some small part of Max that was screaming inside of him. The responsible adult part, the ‘father of a young boy’ part, the ‘you have a reputation as a photographer to maintain in this general city’ part. He ignored this easily, with just a small flick of his head, and instead focused on the pooling, liquid pleasure that was building in his groin.

This was dangerous.

This was unsafe.

This was dirty, and wrong, and public, and he was unbelievably turned on by all of it.

Ash pushed him into the handicapped stall, locking the door behind them, and before Max could even turn around, he’d been pinned up against the wall of the stall with a forearm to his throat.

“I’m gonna suck you off,” Ash said, using his free hand to deftly unbutton the top of his leather pants. He reached in and pulled out his cock, hard, and red, and so, so wet at the tip.

Max swallowed hard against Ash’s arm.

Ash began to smile. “I’m gonna suck you off and make you come so hard you’ll scream my name, _Daddy_.”

“Oh my god,” Max said, closing his eyes and trying to breathe.

The arm disappeared, and then there were hands at his jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, pushing them down around his knees, and then Ash was pulling down his briefs as well, letting his dripping cock burst free finally.

“Oh god,” Max said again,tipping his head back, trying to breath, trying to stay as still as possible against the painfully desperate ache between his thighs.

Ash went down on his knees hard. He reached one hand around Max’s waist, pulling him closer, and reached one down to his own cock, stroking it once, then gripping tightly.

He bent forward and took Max deep in his mouth, swallowing him down, swirling his tongue around the head once, then twice. Popping free again, he grinned up at Max, eyes hooded and full of desire. “You taste like sex,” Ash murmured.

Max groaned, and looked down once more to watch the way he was palming his cock, stroking forward, then turning his wrist at the next stroke, then a single straight one once more. The sound of wet slapping skin against skin was getting louder and louder as Ash continued to masturbate. “Oh…fuck…please…” Max moaned. It was unbelievable how much he wanted Ash’s warm mouth back around him. How much he wanted to grab his head and fuck into him, hold him stead, feel the way his throat might flutter against the head of Max’s cock. “Oh fuck,” he said again.

Ash licked up his inner thigh, then ducked his head lower and reached for Max’s balls, licking them too, opening his mouth impossibly wide and wrapping his lips around them. Then he pulled back and swallowed Max’s cock again, starting to bob back and forward slowly, the brush of his blond hair against Max’s belly a force of fucking nature.

“Ash, I’m gonna come,” he said, and then, unable to help himself, he grabbed at Ash’s hair, holding him in place and fucking deep into his mouth.

Ash’s hand just moved faster at his own erection. He started to hum—a quiet, imperceptible thing at first, but then it opened up into an enormous groan of pleasure and the vibrations were too much; Max couldn’t hold it any longer, he bit back a yell and thrust forward, coming, spilling down Ash’s throat.

Even as Ash began to swallow it all, Max was still coming, still thrusting.

Nothing else mattered but this.

And then Ash came with a muffled yelp, mouth still full of Max’s cock.

Max felt it hit his lower thighs, then dripping, thick and hot over Ash’s fist. He relaxed, letting go of the tangle of hair and letting Ash fall back on his knees, still swallowing. There was a trail of sticky cum at his lower lip, and Max flushed at the sight. As soon as the orgasmic haze was beginning to clear, the responsibility was starting to kick back in, along with the horror, and the shame of what he’d done. “Shit,” he whispered, even as Ash stood up. “I’m sorry—”

Ash pushed into him then, wrapping a cum drenched hand around the back of Max’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

His mouth was open, his tongue was pressing into Max’s, and with it was a spill of warm, thick liquid. “Oh fuck,” Max mumbled at Ash’s mouth, trying to pull away, but Ash just held him there—arms far stronger than Max had realized. He forced the rest of Max’s cum with his tongue to the back of Max’s mouth, and Max had no choice but to swallow with it, to kiss back, to try not to be horrified at the strong, bitter taste of his own seed.

To try not to be horrified at the way his body tingled in disgusting pleasure at the way Ash forced it on him.

“See?” Ash whispered against his lips. “You taste like sex.”

“I…” Max tried. “I…” he didn’t know what to say.

Ash smiled against him, the curve of his mouth cutting upward. “You taste fucking amazing, Daddy,” he said.

They stayed like this for a minute, then two—Ash leaning against Max, Max leaning against the dirty and cold metal wall of the handicapped restroom stall. Then Ash stepped back, pulled on his pants once more, tucking his cock away, still shining wet.

Max did the same, pulling up his black briefs, and then his jeans, and trying to force down the insidious twisting words in his head.

_What about Jessica?_

_What about Michael?_

_What about you, deserves to be alive?_

“Buy me a drink?” Ash asked, standing up on his tiptoes and brushing a light kiss against Max’s neck.

“I..I should go,” Max tried. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. His head was swimming with alcohol, with sex. This was wrong.

This was wrong, this was wrong, this was wrong.

Ash reached for his hand, pulled a finger into his mouth and sucked hard, eyes closed.

Groaning, Max tried to pull back, tried to ignore the heat in his groin again, tried to ignore the fact that he was impossibly half hard _again_.

Ash let go, then nuzzled at Max’s neck again, fingernails tightening at the flesh below his hairline. “Don’t disappear on me, Daddy?” he hissed in Max’s ear. “I know who you are. I know where to find you.”

Then he pulled back, smiling sweetly and innocently—no inkling at all of the demon Max had seen earlier. “I’ll see you at the shoot on Monday!” he exclaimed! Then he unlocked the door, and slid from the bathroom.

Max waited until he heard the outer door swing closed, then left the relative safety of the handicapped stall. He washed his hands first, and bent down to sip up a mouthful of water. This, he swished in his mouth once, twice, three times, then spit. Still, he could taste the bitterness of himself. The reminder of what he’d done. Of what he was.

_“I know where to find you,”_ he’d said.

“Shit,” Max whispered, looking up at himself.

The mirror was still cracked. Still foggy. The face looking back was distorted, longer than it should be, concave where it should be convex, sagging where it should be firm. “Oh shit,” he said once more. Then, he turned the sink back on, and began to wash his hands again, scrubbing until they were pink, and then red, and then burning under the flaying velocity of the water pressure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally posting again!
> 
> To anyone still reading: Thank you for your patience. I've had this entire fic done since July but then got extremely overwhelmed by the thought of editing 100k words. But it's finally happening!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you Salmon for being so supportive. And holy HELL the art for this chapter (and all the chapters) 🤤🤤🤤

_April 19, 2018_

_It’s been a year since I last wrote._

_I’m not sure if it’s because there’s less of me now, or if it’s because there’s more. I blink and I’m somewhere different, I fall asleep and wake up two days later._

_Sometimes I’m almost aware. Sometimes it’s a blessing. Sometimes when I’m home, I don’t have to remember a single moment._

_Sometimes it’s a curse._

_It’s been a year since I last wrote, and I’m afraid._

__

The squealing of pigeons outside his window was an absolutely horrendous homage to morning.

Max groaned and pulled the comforter further up over his head, then squished his face into his pillow as hard as he possibly could. It was difficult to breathe—his chest hurt with the struggle to pull in a full mouthful of cool, clean oxygen—but the slight discomfort was worth it for the distraction it gave from his previous night’s activities.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table, and Max reached for it, squinting his eyes shut as hard as he could while trying to stall off the impending hangover. It continued it’s irritating vibration until Max finally opened one eye just long enough to locate the alarm on the phone and swipe left. Groaning again, he shifted, rolling over to his back and staring at the bright white of the ceiling.

__“It’s big!” she said, throwing her arms around Max. “It’s too big for the two of us!”_ _

__Laughing, Max bent down and kissed her forehead. “It’s just a King, Jessica,” he teased. “I could have gone even bigger! The room is huge, look at all the space!” He bent down then, curling his fingers behind her head and drawing her into a deeper kiss. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s perfect. The house is perfect. And I love you.”_ _

__She ducked her head down further, but Max felt her smile against his collarbone._ _

__Taking a step towards the bed, he led her backwards and watched as she sat on the bed and then lay back, smiling at him. Her golden hair spread around her head softly, like a bright halo of color. “I love you so much,” he whispered, carefully crawling on top of her, bending to kiss her once more, hands beginning to stray as sounds of pleasure fell from both their lips…_ _

The taste of the memory lay sour in his gut. Holding his phone up so he could see once more, Max wrinkled his nose at the blank screen.

Nothing.

No notifications, no missed calls, no nothing.

He unlocked it, then used a finger pad to check his recent calls, his voicemail, his text messages. Maybe his phone had lost signal, maybe he’d erased something in his alcohol laden sleep.

Still nothing from her.

Throwing an arm over his face, the crease of his elbow at the bridge of his nose, he tried to calm the beating of his heart, tried to breathe deeply, like those fucking L.A. meditation quacks all preached.

It didn’t help.

The house was too silent, too barren, no smell of freshly made coffee wafting up the staircase, no sounds of Michael playing in their small yard, no crashing of dishes, no music, no sound,

No Jessica.

Worse, no __Michael__.

“FUCK!” he screamed, loud enough to make his throat burn, loud enough that the hangover headache presented, no longer held at bay. “FUCK!” he tried again, but this one fell short—syllables mangled in his teeth, and a short sob escaped. “Fuck,” he whispered.

The phone buzzed in his hand, just once.

There was a mere moment of excitement, of thankfulness, of relief that it was all going to be okay, and then he saw the text message bar, a grey stripe across the screen.

Unknown Number

\+ 1 (213) 480 8781

_**_**hey daddy ;)** _ ** _

Max froze, phone in held in the air, over his face, squawking of pigeons filling the room with chaotic, obnoxious, headache-inducing noise. Swallowing, he noted with disgust the caked on grit of his teeth and the foul taste of his morning-after-complete-debauchery breath. Five seconds passed, then ten, then twenty, and nothing else happened.

Max thumbed up the lockscreen, then tapped into the message.

It was a photo.

A photo of Ash, hand tightly gripping his very erect cock, the tip red and wet. The camera was just close enough that Max saw the dense, milky cum dripping down his thumb and wrist—saw how it pooled at the base of Ash’s cock, soaking the fine blond hairs of his groin.

The sudden quickening of desire between his legs wasn’t entirely unexpected, but Max still groaned in helplessness. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Holding the phone out so he could see the photo clearly, he reached a hand under the blankets, under the band of his briefs, and stroked himself to hardness.

It didn’t take long.

Despite the ongoing push of the hangover headache at his temples, and despite the emptiness of the house, there was something so aggressively risky about keeping the photo up on his phone. Something tantalizing, forbidden and impossible to resist. He twisted his wrist once, stroking up to the head of his cock and thumbing over the slit before spreading the silky precum further down the base of his erection.

“Oh Ash,” he murmured. “I’m gonna...I’m gonna fuck you...I’m...” Max was breathless, his hand still working, still gliding up to the head, back down to the base. Occasionally he let his fingers loosen and brush against the inside of his thighs. Each time, he shivered with the touch, closed his eyes tight and imagined Ash’s lips kissing him, tonguing around his balls, licking up the root and swallowing him whole. His whole body shuddered with the thought, and he groaned in pleasure, looking once more at the photo.

Ash’s hand—delicate fingers, nails painted black.

Ash’s cock—so hard, straight, perfect flair at the head.

“Oh god.” He wanted to taste Ash. It had been so long since...so long since he'd been with a man and he wanted to swallow Ash down and bury his nose in the golden hairs at the base of his cock and he wanted to taste his cum, taste the bitterness, swallow it down, throat bobbing with the sheer amount as Ash kept pumping and pumping—

“Oh fuck…oh fuck…oh fucking…” Max came, cum streaking his belly, warm and sticky against the palm of his hand. “Oh fuck…”

The phone buzzed again in his hand and Max dropped it with a yelp of surprise. He wriggled out of his t-shirt—the same one he’d been wearing underneath his sweater last night—and then used it to mop off the worst of the mess from his stomach and legs. Tossing it across the room, to the general vicinity of the laundry bin, he fished out the phone from within the folds and confines of the comforter.

Unknown Number

\+ 1 (213) 480 8781

**you taste better…**

Another image.

Ash, finger crooked in his mouth, teeth gently biting down. And cum still dripping from his hand, onto his lips.

“Fuck,” Max croaked. He quickly opened his photo albums, deleted the two images, then threw the phone across the bed where it landed in a comfortable pile of pillows and comforters and sheets, none of which were stained with Max’s shame.

Then he froze.

His left ring finger was bare.

__“It seems blatantly unfair that I have to be chained to you for eight months with a ridiculous engagement ring, while you can run wild up until the wedding,” she’d said, a glint of fiery passion sparking in her eyes._ _

__“You don’t have to have the engagement ring. I just thought you wanted the big rock to brag to all your friends about what a classy, upstanding guys you’re marrying!” Max teased, dancing out of the way of her swinging fists._ _

__“I proposed to you, asshole,” she laughed. “You wear the rock.”_ _

And he had. They’d picked two bands, both simple, both 18-carat gold with an inscription on the inner band:

__Since I’ve been loving you_ _

That was all there was. A stray lyric from a Led Zeppelin song that Max had loved and that Jessica had loved and they had loved each other and that was all they needed. They both wore the bands as soon as they were ready—didn’t wait until the wedding, or the vows, or anything solid. They just wanted the world to know that they were bound to someone, someone special, someone who loved them back.

And it was gone.

He hadn’t taken it off, he was sure of it. He’d have remembered a decision like that—it would have been fraught with energy and emotion and anger.

“Fuck.” His heart was starting to race, his ears were humming with an all too familiar buzz of tension that came from making very, very bad decisions. He threw the comforter from the bed, ripped off the sheets and pillowcases, and shook them out with all his might, listening for that telltale __tink__ of something dropping to the hardwood floor.

There was nothing.

He bundled the bedding all together and took it down to the first floor—to the beautifully finished laundry room that was painted in mellow greens and soft, buttery yellows. Despite the intended calming effect, he was anything but calm. Shoving the bedding into the washing machine, he clicked the dial forward, then dropped the lid with a clang of sound. “Fuck.”

Wandering into the kitchen, his hands furious with motion, he shuffled papers, washed dishes, reached down into the dish disposal and fingered the edges of the clogged and dirty drain. An hour passed, and then the kitchen was spotless—every glass put away shining, every knife in its proper place. He wandered aimlessly through the house, stopping in every room, tearing it apart, and then putting it piece by piece back together. He was halfway through his deconstruction of the hall bathroom when he realized he was still only wearing his black briefs—a crusty, stained patch in the very front from that morning’s activities.

There was a term his court appointed therapist liked to use. “ _ _Misery Threshold.__ ”

 _ _“Everyone has a threshold for pain,”__ he’d said. __“Some people pop an Advil at the slightest hint of a headache. Others can break a bone and still walk around with only minimal pain. Misery is the same way.”__

Max had nodded along, had flashed his award winning smile, showing that yes, he very much understood the concept, and his therapist had been happy enough to let it go.

Misery Threshold. Some people hit a certain point and they are moved to make a change, to stop the continual circling of mental pain. Others hit that point, and keep going. Are unable to break free from the cycle. It was basically a nicer, more L.A. hippy way to say ‘rock bottom.’

And this?

Standing in the hall-bathroom, cabinets plundered of their spoils, toilet cleaner and bleach and a refill bottle of SoftSoap strewn about the hallway, while reaching down the S-bend of the toilet bare-handed and naked, save for a pair of very cum-stained briefs?

This was his Misery Threshold.

The ring wasn’t in the bend of the toilet. There was truly no good reason it would have been. Max pulled out his hand, shook the water from it a few times, and then sank down on the bathroom floor, his back to the beautiful, glass enclosed shower. “Fuck,” he said, for probably the hundredth time that morning. A tremor ran through his entire body, and his breathing quickened, and his heart was racing and then he lifted a fist and punched down into his thigh as hard as he could, then again, then again, then again. “FUCK!” he screamed.

His upper thigh was already bruising from the force of his fist and still he couldn’t stop, so he stood and punched through the drywall above the toilet.

This, was finally enough. This was finally the impetus he needed to pull him back from insanity and self loathing and desperation. “God dammit,” Max whispered. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, letting the burst of pain center him, then he reached in the shower, turned the knob to burning hot and stepped out of his underwear.

The water was scalding, and it ran red at his feet—washing away the blood from his knuckles. His head pounded with hangover, his heart ached with shame, and above all, his blood ran thick with disgust. There was nothing he could do. Jessica wasn’t coming back. His job was going to be in jeopardy the moment they learned he’d had an affair with one of the models. He’d fucked up his life, and still, all he could think about were Ash’s lips, covered in his own cum, and bright, golden hair.

__“I’ve never seen the stars.”_ _

__“Hmm?” Max looked over at Griffin, splayed out on his back on the desert sand._ _

__“I’ve never seen stars like this! It doesn’t look this beautiful in the States. There’s too much light pollution. Too much noise. It’s not the same thing.”_ _

__Max squinted, watching the twinkle of them against the dark black night sky. “Huh. I guess they do look better.”_ _

__Griffin reached over and flicked his forearm, the fingernail hitting Max hard._ _

__“Hey!”_ _

__“It’s incredible, here. The images we capture...they’re so sad. So impossibly sad. But it will help, you know? Someone, somewhere will see them and will donate money. Or get the Human Rights Coalition involved or...something. I don’t know.”_ _

__He trailed off for a moment and Max turned his head ever so slightly, just enough to see the rise and fall of Griffin’s chest._ _

__“It will help,” Griffin said, as though trying to convince himself. “I know it will help. Look!” He reached a hand up, pointing at some immeasurable object. “Orion.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Max said, watching as Griffin traced the belt, his arm moving in careful lines. “Yeah, I’ve seen Orion.”_ _

__“But not like this.”_ _

The phone alarm went off at 5:30 A.M. sharp, screeching Monday morning’s arrival.

Max shrugged out of bedding that he’d painstakingly washed the afternoon prior, ran a hand through matted hair, then reached over and flicked the alarm off. The vestiges of the dream felt heavy on his skin, clinging desperately, despite his attempts to shake them off.

He’d hit rock bottom, there was nowhere to go but up, today was going to be a good day. He would call Jessica. He would apologize, and apologize, and apologize some more. It might not be enough yet, but it would be eventually, and it was all he had to give right now.

(He would __not__ engage with Ash Lynx.)

The drive in to the shoot was sunny—one of those perfect L.A. mornings where the sun rose over the horizon , casting a perfectly variegated orange, then yellow atop the dark blue of the night sky. He almost considered pulling over to catch a few shots of it, but as it was, he was running perfectly on time, and he had no plans to ruin that. The radio was playing some god-awful mix of top 90s rock music but even the shrieking of Linkin Park did nothing but invigorate him.

He called Jessica on the car phone. It was early, but not early enough that she wouldn’t be out of bed, getting Michael ready for school. Even at her parents, she had a flawless routine. Wake at 5, pull up the NPR app on her phone and listen to the BBC World News Service as she showered, as she blow dried her hair, as she prepared lunch for Michael and then breakfast for Michael, and then breakfast for herself (which usually consisted of a single avocado and a handful of almonds.) She was nothing if not predictable, and so Max knew with certainty that his phone call would interrupt this routine and she’d have no choice but to acknowledge the fact that he’d called.

She didn’t pick up.

Even this didn’t throw him. It wasn’t unexpected, she’d mostly likely swiped the call from the screen in irritation at the interruption to the current news report of death and death and Trump and death. He left a brief message, apologizing, asking when he might see Michael, then asking her to take her time, but to call him back when she was able. Satisfied, he ended the call, then spent the rest of the drive in humming along to the likes of Green Day, and No Doubt, and even one impressively nostalgic playing of Ace of Base.

He pulled into the lot right behind Evelyn in her feisty little red Camaro convertible, and followed behind her, all the way around to the back of the building. She parked in a stall that was as far from the entrance as possible, and Max still followed, rolling down the window to his SUV and pulling up next to her. Then he sat, watching the way she turned off her engine, pulled out her phone, and started scrolling down, occasionally pausing to furiously type. He waited, and stared, and waited, and stared, and finally she looked up and over in his direction, giving a visible start when she realized who was watching her.

“Max!” She yelped.

Giving a very self satisfied wave and grin, he finally got out of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled all his equipment out.

“Christ,” Evelyn swore, opening the driver door and swinging out her extremely long legs. She moved sporadically, a bit like a dying swan, and her heels clicked over to him. “I won’t lie,” she said, digging out a cigarette from her purse, “you are the absolute last person I expected to see right now.” She began to dig through her purse, cigarette bobbing at her lips, then finally came up with her lighter.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Max laughed. “It’s a beautiful morning! And I get to spend it working with you!” He shrugged his shoulder bag over his head, then paused. “Mind if I bum one of those?”

He had officially moved into asshole territory. Even as he asked, he could feel his own pack rubbing against his thigh, safely tucked in the pocket of his jeans.

Her eyes narrowed, but she shook one free, handing it over. “No offense, but I don’t particularly share your zest for…whatever this is.” She clicked the lighter a few times before it caught, then took a long drag, releasing with a sigh of relief, handing over the lighter. “To what do we owe this celebratory occasion? You know, you being punctual for the first time in your life?”

Smiling, Max handed back over the lighter, puffed at his cigarette for a few obligatory seconds of companionship, then bent down and grabbed the handle to his suitcase. “Pleasure doing business with you, Evelyn. See you inside!”

He could practically feel the weight of her glare as he turned and walked toward the building but nothing could stop him. He was on his way up, he was going to stop making fucking disasterous decisions, he was a responsible 32 year old adult and he was going to start acting it.

The doorman nodded at him as he stubbed out the cigarette in the smoking urn just outside the entrance, and then he breezed in, offering a glowing smile and ‘hello’ to everyone he saw. He ran his finger down the list at the elevator looking for his name, and found it quickly:

****8:00am-1:00pm | Solo Shoot | Floor 4 | Max Lobo & Ash Lynx** **

“Going up?” a familiar voice asked.

__Fuck._ _

__No, it was a beautiful morning, and it was a beautiful day for change—_ _

There was a heavy sigh behind him, and then a finger reached out gracefully, pad pressing ‘up’.

Max kept his eyes chastely fixed on the glowing yellow button, even as Ash Lynx stepped up at his side.

“Not speaking to me?” he asked.

His voice was curiously boyish—not anything like Chris’s was in the bar, not rough, not drugged, not slippery with sex. Max waited until the ding of the elevators chimed their arrival, then he held out a hand, motioning for Ash to go first.

“What a gentleman,” Ash sneered. “Kiss and don’t tell, or something.”

The doors closed behind them, and then, and only then, did Max turn and face Ash. “Look,” he said, trying very hard for an ‘ _ _adult voice’__ , or an ‘ _ _in control__ ’ voice, or even just plain old denial with a ‘ _ _I didn’t actually fuck up and screw one of the models on my shoot__ ’ voice. “I’m really sorry. I was fucked up, I made some really shitty decisions. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have come looking for you at that bar. I know I shouldn’t be asking this but…can we please drop it?”

There was a very sour churning in his gut that he was even saying those words. __You’re making him a victim. You’re making him even more helpless and you are such a fucking asshole.__

Ash just shrugged, not at all upset. “Whatever,” he said. “Your call.”

It took a moment more before Max realized his mouth was hanging open. “Uhhh…right then.” He turned back to the doors, but couldn’t help a look over at Ash.

Who had reclined back on the handrails of the elevator, and was watching Max from under hooded eyes. He reached a hand down slowly, under the lip of his shirt, and pushed it up, just enough so that Max could see a strip of pale, white flesh—so he could see the sharp line of Ash’s hipbone. “I think you’ll miss me,” Ash whispered.

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

Ash walked out as though nothing had happened at all, as though he weren’t just propositioning Max in an elevator moments before and…

And…

Shit. Swallowing hard, throat tight, Max called out, “Hey!” He cringed with how loud it sounded in the hallway. There were numerous tech folks walking about, a few people from catering were busy setting up the breakfast bar, and still, Ash stopped and turned, watching him with a small smirk turning at the corner of his mouth. “I think I’m shooting you solo today.”

Max wanted to smack himself in the face. He was starting to sweat, there was an obnoxious ball of nerves or tension , or something else far more insidious deep within his gut and…fuck. He was nervous.

The day was already going to hell.

Ash just cocked his head. “You got it, Pops,” he called, then disappeared down the hall, heading to wardrobe and makeup.

His cheeks were burning.

“Hey, Pops!” The man from the other day was waving him over now, and Max wanted to sink into the floor.

“I’m 32,” he griped, hauling his equipment over. “I catch any of you calling me Pops, I’ll tell your boss you’ve been smoking weed on break.” He squinted, reading the guy’s nametag. “Brandon.”

“Wow, cool it man,” Brandon said, hands up in surrender. “Just messin’ with you. You find Ash, the other night?”

His ears were burning now also, and he resisted the sudden urge to scratch at his neck, to loosen his collar, to try to get some more fucking air. “We’re good,” Max settled on. “Hey! You got any donuts?”

Brandon just shook his head. “Sorry. Lotta fruit though?”

 _ _It’s going to be a good day__ , his mantra kept up. _ _It’s going to be a good day, it’s going to be a good day.__

“Eh, I’ll pass for now,” Max replied, then made his way down the hall pushing the door to the cigar lounge open.

It was like entering another world, another time. The air had a vaguely foggy quality, as though still holding on to the smoke of past customers and refusing to let it dissipate. The floor was a dark wood, the bar was a dark wood, the furniture was dark wood, with mustard yellow leather upholstery and brass buttons. There was a richly exotic feel to the place, as though he’d left 2019 Los Angeles and stepped back into 1920s New York and full of barely contained heat, and age, and sex.

Max wandered the room for a few minutes, tracing the pads of his fingers along the rich, coffee colored dado rail. The cigar humidor was locked, though he tugged at the lip of the handle a couple of times, and he made a mental note to text Evelyn and see if she could find the manager. He closed his eyes and imagined potential shots, potential poses, but all he could think of was Ash, reclining on the leather vintage Chesterfield couch, cigar brushing his lips, green eyes blazing towards the camera.

He shook his head, letting the images scatter.

The bar was well stocked, premium liquor out and ready to be poured, and Max considered, only for the merest of moments, mixing himself a drink. This too, he shook away, irritated by the pull the alcohol had on him. He remembered something from the website, how the lounge opened onto a small sunroom, and so he walked to the far end of the room—to the ornate wood double doors that stood closed—and he tugged them open, letting the bright sunlight flood the darkness.

It was too much—almost as though the lounge scouring of light were too clean for such a space—too pure—and he quickly shut the doors again, allowing the dusty air to settle once more, comfortably blanketing the dark wood and protecting it’s secrets.

Finally, he wandered back to his equipment, and crouched down, unpacking lenses, trying them out in the space and setting them each carefully in a single line atop the bar.

“Particular,” a voice mused.

Max spun around to the entrance. Ash stood there, in black suit pants, a dark crimson collared shirt, and a black velvet smoking jacket, so dark it seemed to devour the very light around him. His blond hair was brushed back, gelled ever so slightly at the top to hold it’s shape, and it curled around his ears, framing his face, yet making him look older. His profile was sharp, his nose a knife through the air, and his eyes were burning, the bright green that haunted Max’s memories.

“Oh,” was all Max said. The sound dropped to his feet, round, and full, and taut with nerves.

“You’re very particular,” Ash said, repeating that word. The door swung closed behind him and he began to walk, trailing his fingers along the dado rail, following the memory of Max’s movements. “About your lenses.” He nodded towards the bar, at the line of camera lenses.

“They’re expensive. Want to make sure everything is accounted for.”

“Particular.” Smiling, Ash left the edge of the room and crossed over to the bar, leaning a forearm on it.

Max continued to unload, lining up lenses and bags and equipment, though now he was watched, judged, and a small trickle of sweat beaded at the back of his neck before running loose down his spine.

Ash’s fingers were tapping on the glossy bartop, then he crawled them across the surface until he tapped at the back of Max’s hand, just once.

Just enough for breathing to quicken, for his heart rate to pound painfully, for a flush to creep steadily up his neck. “Yes?” Max whispered, unwilling to even look up.

“How do you want me?”

Max sucked in a breath so hard he thought he’d choke with it.

“Mr. Lobo?” Ash pressed.

His words were syrupy sweet again, nothing like Chris. Still raw, still sensual, but tender in a way that made Max desperate to brush against the sensitive flesh of his wrist, kiss up his inner arm, take him apart slowly, exquisitely, until he heard his name on Ash’s lips over and over and over—

“Max.”

He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, clenching his jaw, then reset. “Sorry,” he began, flashing a smile in Ash’s direction and slipping his hand out from under Ash’s fingers. “Not enough coffee. I’m going to have you start on one of those barstools in the corner,” Max pointed. “We’ll have you lean against the cocktail table, resting your head against your hand maybe? I’m going for languid. Sensual.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was saying them, and it wasn’t inappropriate, it wasn’t, this was work and this was he was paid to do, so why was there a sick dread pooling in his stomach…

“Absolutely.” Unfolding himself from the bar Ash made his way to the corner of the room, to the barstool in question, and hopped up.

They worked in silence for a long while; Max, with the silence of an artist, clicking the shutter-release, biting his lip at the image, then again, and again, and again, and Ash with the silence of one in a dream, changing his movements ever so slightly, always in between the press of Max’s finger. It was sort of teamwork that Max rarely found when shooting models. They didn’t need words between them to capture the perfect image, they just moved in graceful synchrony, harmonious and lovely.

At one point, Ash slipped off the stool and came to stand behind Max, leaning over his shoulder and watching as he clicked through the images. Ash barely made a sound even then, only a short hum of approval at the various images, but his neck was so close to Max’s shoulder that Max was certain he could feel the vibration of his voice box.

“What do you think?” Max asked, turning into Ash’s stare.

Ash didn’t move, just lifted his eyes to Max’s, and suddenly they were face to face, noses almost brushing against each other.

“Beautiful.” His lips barely moved as he spoke.

The stillness born of their stare was so complete that Max was afraid to swallow, afraid to blink.

“Max!”

He broke away, suddenly flustered, trying very hard not to cringe at the way his cheeks flushed with heat, and turned toward the doorway where Evelyn stood—prim, proper, and with her goddamn clipboard. “Yeah?”

“You’re at break,” she snipped, looking pointedly at her watch. “Union will come after us if we don’t follow the timeline. You know that.”

Wrinkling his nose, Max huffed a sigh. “Yeah. Fine.”

“I need coffee. And a smoke,” Ash said, shouldering past Max. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

It was as though nothing had happened between them, as though the magic of the morning had been a simple spell that Ash had broken with a wave of his hand. Max watched him go, and watched Evelyn turn to follow before he remembered.

“Can you get a key to the humidor?”

She turned back, looking irritated. “Yes. I’ll have it in five minutes.”

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t five minutes.

It was more like twenty, and so, clenching his fists at his side and flustered that three hours had already passed without him noticing, he wandered out into the hall. There was a bin of ice with various carbonated beverages, and though they were mostly of the La Croix variety, he reached in for a Coke, popped it open, and downed half of it in one gulp.

__“They’ll kill you,” Jessica had said._ _

__“Huh?” He’d been staring holes in his computer screen, popping back and forth between images trying to decide which was the sharper version of a very barren, very washed out desert._ _

__“Caffeine and cigarettes. They’re going to kill you.”_ _

__Looking down at the half empty coffee pot on one side of his desk, and the ashtray full of cigarette butts from chain smoking for the past three hours, he winced._ _

__“I’m not ready to be a widow,” She’d murmured, coyly, arms wrapping around his neck. She’d leaned in then, kissed his neck right below his ear, and everything had been beautiful._ _

Max shook the memory from his head.

“Ready?”

Ash was standing against the table, cigar already in hand. “Evelyn got into the humidor. Said you wanted a cigar for the photos.” He leaned over the table, cradling his chin in one hand, and twirling the cigar between two fingers of the other. “So where do you want me?”

There was danger in his eyes again, and a flicker of something more. Something wanted. Suppressing a shudder, Max chewed at the edge of a fingernail, then swallowed down the rest of the warm Coke.

“Mr. Lobo?”

Eyebrows raised, Max waved an arm back towards the cigar lounge. “After you, kid.”

Ash sauntered past him, and Max followed, and then they were both swallowed by the smoky lounge once more.

Another world.

A divergent thread, straying from the weave.

__Sultry._ _

And this is what Max called down to Ash, as he stood atop a bar stool. Ash splayed below him, limbs languid against the curve of the chaiz lounge, smoke from the lit cigar curling round his face. “Sultry,” Max repeated. “I need sex. I need a roundness to your mouth, as though you’ve just moaned in pleasure.”

Even as he said the words, Ash moved in increments. His lower lip dropped, his pupils dilated, his hips bucked up ever so slightly. He brought the cigar to his lips and took a long drag, before letting the smoke out once more.

And Max caught it all.

Each wisp of smoke as began to dissipate, each breath Ash took, each subtle move of his chest, of his wrist, of his neck. He stopped calling out commands because Ash knew them all, knew exactly where Max wanted him to be. Once again, the pure, buzzing energy of collaboration took over, and Max found himself moving into shots before his brain had even begun to comprehend the lighting, or the composition, or the model.

They breathed together.

The smoke was thick in Max’s lungs and he found himself desperate to chase it all the way to Ash’s lips, swallow it off of him, lick the saturating taste of it from his skin.

He didn’t.

In the end, he was surprised only by how few shots he’d actually taken. During a typical day at a shoot like this, he’d go home with 500-800 images on his card that he’d then need to parse through, and clean, and judge for perfect artistic quality.

With Ash, there were only 92.

As Max clicked through these at the end of the day—after Ash had left the lounge to clean up and change back into street clothes and, presumably, go forth and cause mischief as teenagers are wont to do—he was shocked by how few there really were, and by how perfect every single image was. As the pad of his finger moved against the dial of the camera, he felt it start deep in his stomach—coiling and tangling within him.

__Muse…_ _

This was a word he’d long chafed at. It was an excuse. A casually dropped word, meant to forgive all failings. _ _“My muse has left me. I’m waiting for my muse. I’m nothing without my muse.”__

He’d heard them all, and he’d wrinkled his nose at it, the skin folding hard enough for him to see from the corner of his eye. There was no such thing, there was just working, and pushing through shit, and muck, and the eve-yawning chasm of depressive spirals that lay in wait.

__Muse…_ _

Ash glowed in the fiery embers of the cigar—his skin golden in its flickering aura.

__Muse…_ _

“Max!”

He looked up, almost dropping his camera in his haste to turn it off. “Alison! Shit, sorry. What?”

“It’s 9 pm. Most folks have left already—they just sent me up here to make sure the lounge and the humidor were locked back up again.” She sniffed suddenly, and looked past him. “Damn, that smells like a good cigar.”

“You smoke?” Max asked, quickly packing up his cameras.

“Boyfriend. Partner. Something. I don’t know, he’s one of those ‘don’t need a label’ types. He’s big into cigars though—he’d kill to be in this room.”

 _ _“Mmm.__ ” He was listening, but only barely, trying to put the lounge back to rights, and gather his equipment, and get the hell out of the building before he did something absolutely stupid, and absolutely regretful. “Ash around?”

__Too fucking late._ _

Alison quirked her head at him and studied him for a moment. “One of the catering guys said you were asking for him last time.”

“It’s nothing.” Max grabbed the last of his bags, and moved past her, letting her lock up behind him. “Just wanted to thank him for a good day.”

“He’s trouble,” Alison warned.

“He’s a kid.”

“He breaks hearts. Everyone knows it. Be careful, Max.”

“I’m married.”

He quirked a smile in her direction, but she just shrugged her shoulders and gave him a knowing look, before walking him to the elevator. “Just be careful.”

At that impressively foreboding warning, the doors opened, Max stepped inside, and Alison waved him off with a smile.

The parking lot at the back of the building was already mostly empty. Even Evelyn’s little, shiny Camaro was missing, and as he keyed open his old SUV, carefully setting all of his equipment in their proper places, he regretted not giving her a harder time about the humidor.

Shoving the back door shut, Max leaned up against the car, dug out a cigarette, and lit up.

“Hello.”

Even in the dark shadows cast by the setting sun, Ash glowed with something inhuman.

“Mr. Lynx.” Nodding in his direction, Max took another deep pull of the cigarette. The adage felt wrong on his tongue—too stilted, too formal a thing to describe the wanton beauty beside him.

“You have a cigarette I could bum?”

It was an oddly soporific moment of déjà vu. This morning, Max had been full of energy and had asked it of Evelyn out of a desire to badger, to mock, to be a spiteful little shit. Ash’s inquiry seemed born of simplicity and need. Nothing more.

Max shook out another cigarette and handed it to Ash before pulling out his lighter.

Ash shook his head at this though, merely popped the stick between his lips, then turned towards Max, regarding him for a moment. “Did you get any good shots?”

“A few.”

Ash didn’t take his eyes from Max, though he nodded with the statement. “Good,” he said. Then he reached up, standing on tip toes and wrapping a cool hand around the back of Max’s neck. He pulled Max to him, and lit the end of his cigarette from Max’s, staring at him intently the whole time. Once the embers began to burn, he let go, falling back and leaning against the side of Max’s car with the grace of an animal.

It was all so quick, but so intimate Max shivered—the memory of Ash’s fingers at his neck whispering in the barest hint of breeze.

They stood in silence for a good long while, wisps of smoke muddling in front of their noses before being chased away by the evening air. A couple of times, Max heard the sound of a car starting and rolling out from the lot, but they remained hidden behind the height of the SUV.

“Could I see them?”

It surprised him, the boyishness of the question, the flicker in Ash’s eyes as he asked. “I…” Max stuttered to a stop. He considered it, listening to the soft breaths of Ash next to him, and wondering what the correct answer might be. “I’ve packed my cameras up,” he settled on. “I need to edit things first—go through the images and see what I have.”

Ash considered this. “I could go with you?” he asked.

There was a boyish intonation to his voice out here, under the flickering night sky, that hadn’t been present during the shoot, and hadn’t been present at the club.

“That’s not a good idea.” Something in his stomach flipped as he answered, and Max quickly took another puff at his cigarette.

“I could make it worth your while.” Ash turned, pinning Max against the side of the car. One hand was splayed near Max’s head and he shoved a knee in between Max’s legs, just shy of nudging his crotch.

“Ash,”

“I’ll do anything,” Ash whispered at his ear. He held the smoking cigarette between two fingers, and these he let drift lazily down Max’s chest.

“Ash.” It came out as a low growl, something dangerous and Ash obeyed, sliding back to his position against the side door.

He raised the cigarette to his mouth and blew out another swirl of smoke, steady, yet frigidly silent.

“I’m sorry,” Max tried. “I wasn’t myself. I shouldn’t have followed you to the club. This stops now, alright? You’re a kid, and this stops now.”

That familiar grasp around his lungs tightened again, an impossible vice, and he fought to keep his voice firm as thoughts clattered about inside his head.

He wants you.

He’s nineteen. He’s willing, he wants you—

Jessica…

“Jessica.”

Ash looked up at him. “Who?”

“Ahh…” He hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud. “My wife.”

“Oh.” Back to his cigarette, the shine of black nail polish catching the dim light from one of the street lamps and reflecting it back in his face. “Most people wouldn’t say no, you know.”

It was as though he were speaking to the asphalt. No tremor of emotion, no flicker of eyes to see if Max was watching, just a pure, unadulterated statement of fact.

“I have a wife,” Max tried, though just saying the word again made him sick to his stomach. Did he have a wife?Would she ever forgive him if she’d found out about…this?

Shrugging, Ash flicked the butt of his cigarette to the street, watching as the embers flamed out into darkness. “Doesn’t matter. They still wouldn’t say no.”

“You’re…” he wasn’t sure what to say. What Ash wanted of him. What he was willing to give away. “You’re beautiful—”

“Don’t.” Ash smiled, then tilted his head back, watching the spattering of stars as they appeared in the sky.

Max couldn’t take his eyes off of Ash’s neck, off of that porcelain smooth skin, or the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.

“You’re too nice.”

He snapped his gaze back to Ash’s face.

“Hollywood will eat you up, you know. You already know you couldn’t cut it as an international photo-journalist. I know this work must seem beneath you, or not worthy, or just…a way to pay the bills. I agree. It’s not worth your time. You’re talented. You shouldn’t have quit.”

“It almost killed me.” The words were out before Max even considered their meaning. It was true, it was fact, and yet it was a thought he’d sat on these last few years and refused to vocalize, whether it be with Jessica, or with his therapist, or even when he was distinctly and emphatically alone.

Cocking his head, Ash looked back to him, eyebrows raised. “And you’d give up because of that? The world is full of ways to die…”

“Leave it,” Max growled, the poison eating away at his veins, threatening to burst free. “What would you know about dying?”

“Only that newsworthy deaths must be exceptional. And I refuse to go unobserved.”

He looked back to the sky for a moment, and Max let the weight of his words settle about his shoulders. He shuddered under them, wanting to go back, willing the conversation to end here and not push forward any further.

It didn’t.

Instead, the growl of a motorcycle entered the lot and Ash pushed himself from the car, extending a hand. “Was nice to work with you, Mr. Lobo.”

Shaking it, Max asked, “Won’t you be back the next few days?”

“I’m finished!” Ash laughed, and the sound was suddenly loud and piercing and illustrious of how quiet their conversation had been up until this point. “I’m going to New Jersey for a few weeks. Back home to visit my… _ _family__.”

The way his tongue left that last word sounded poisonous, as though it was already decaying.

“I’ll be back though. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“Right,” Max said, suddenly aware that there was something pressed into the palm of his hand. He drew back, and looked with surprise at the simple, gold wedding band that lay there. “Oh, fuck. Oh, _ _fuck__! You had it? You took it? You—”

“Be careful of Chris,” Ash warned and then he turned and jogged over to the waiting motorcycle.

“Ash!”

He didn’t look back. Instead, he threw a long leg over the back of the bike, clutched the driver close, and leaned in as though speaking, but nothing could be heard over the resultant trilling of the engine. The driver turned toward Max, dark black helmet obscuring all features, then he kicked the bike back into gear and sped out of the parking lot leaving Max, once again, very, very alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there are still folks reading this despite my agonizingly slow update times! Comments always MASSIVELY appreciated :) :) :)

_June 1, 2019_

_He’s back._

__

Max finished out the shoot over the next two weeks. The other members of the 2019 Most Beautiful People roster were gorgeous and perfect—complete with pearly white Hollywood smiles and incredibly straight Hollywood noses. Clicking through the unedited shots from the comfort of his home office, he was quite sure that this was indeed the most beautiful group of people he’d ever seen.

But Ash still managed to outshine them all.

His stomach still twisted every time he thought about the teenager. In the words of one of Michael’s coveted childhood books, Ash was most definitely a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad _idea_.

Still, as ideas were wont to do, it grew within him over the weeks—extending long tendrils through the spider webbing of his nerves, hooking into his synapses and blossoming into dark desire.

Sometimes it reached for him in broad sunlight and he’d jerk, wrinkling his nose and willing the image of that predatory emerald gaze away.

Sometimes, in the deep darkness of night, the idea would become more insidious, snaking down his chest into the pit of his stomach and flaring into heated desire. These times, he would close his eyes, reach for his hardening cock, and imagine Ash on his knees, head bobbing at Max’s groin and swallowing him whole.

It never took very long for Max to come during these moments of weakness, and it never took very long for the shame of it to settle, coating him in stickiness that seemed harder and harder to wash away no matter how aggressively he scrubbed.

He’d woken this morning with the taste of Ash in his mouth—the memory of smoke, of orange, and of the thick bitterness that had coated Ash’s tongue after he’d sucked Max off. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Max swallowed once, then twice, willing the dream notes to dissipate, wanting nothing more than the boring tackiness of bad breath. Just as he’d firmly pulled himself together, and reminded himself for the third time that no, you can’t actually dream taste, his phone began to buzz.

 _Jessica_ , he thought in excitement. _It’s got to be Jessica!_

He reached for it, swinging his legs out quickly to stretch far enough to grasp, and in the action of answering the call, managed to fall out of the bed in a snarl of sheets and limbs, and comforter.

“Max? Hello?”

Max groaned loudly, and a tad bit dramatically. “Ibe.”

“Well gosh, good to hear your voice too.”

“Sorry.” Untangling his legs took a few seconds, but as soon as he was finished, Max lay back down on the bed, phone pressed to his ear. “Ibe!”

“That’s better,” Ibe muttered. “Look, I’m in town for a week. Got a gallery opening at the Annenberg on Friday. Would love to see you, if you have any time!”

“Wow…” Max stuttered to a stop. The Annenberg was making it in the photography world. He’d shown there years ago—after he’d first hit it big with a photojournalist exhibition on the Somali Civil War back in 2009. He’d been invited again—in 2014, just after he’d been awarded the Pulitzer for his work in Gaza but…

But…

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, willing his racing heart to slow.

“Max?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Ibe, shit, I’m sorry. Of course! My schedule’s clear this week—just finished a shoot for GQ and I have a few weeks off before the next. Whenever you want, I’m good!”

“How about now?”

He blinked. “Uh…”

“I’m sorry, Max. I already talked to Jessica, I know you’ve holed up in your house. I’m...I’m actually kind of standing on your porch.”

“Fuck me.” Max groaned, pressing a fist against his forehead.

“Look, you go running every morning at 8. It’s 8:15. I’m here. I’m dressed for a jog. Come on, let’s go.”

Ibe sounded so calm, so relaxed, so fucking sensible, and yet Max wanted to put his fist through the guy’s face. “Damnit Ibe, did Jessica put you up to this?”

“No! Never!”

Jessica abso-fucking-lutely put him up to it. “Just give me a minute,” Max groaned into the phone.

“I’ll be eating your croissants!”

“What the fuck, Ibe? Are you already in my house?”

Ibe laughed on the line. “As soon as you picked up, I let myself in. I’m in your kitchen. Go piss, put some clothes on, and meet me down here in five. Least you can do is keep up your lean, Los Angeles physique. Don’t want those washboard abs disappearing on you.”

“You really have been talking to Jessica. Fine. I’m coming. And if you eat my last croissant, I’m using my Los Angeles physique to beat your fucking ass so bad you won’t make it back to Japan.”

Max hung up then, torn between anger at Ibe’s co-conspirator status with Jessica, and unbridled affection for his friend, who was currently spending precious moments of his busy week in America dragging Max’s depressed ass out of bed.

Ibe was perched on one of the kitchen bar stools that Max and Jessica had argued over for what seemed like decades in and Ikea before finally deciding that yes, Dark Grey would look considerably better than Beige. “Max!” he shouted, jumping off the stool.

“Jesus Christ, Ibe. You couldn’t have dropped me an e-mail first? Or even a preparatory phone call before breaking into my kitchen?”

Ibe threw his arms around Max clung to him for a moment before letting him go once more. “Hardly breaking in,” he chided. “You didn’t lock your back door.”

“Shit.”

“Come on,” Ibe said, pulling Max along with him. “I’ve got your keys. It’s gorgeous—the sun on the horizon is your favorite shade of…yellow.”

Even Max couldn’t help but laugh at this. “Alright. Alright, I’m ready, let’s go, let’s get this over with.”

They stopped on the porch only for a minute—just long enough for Max to put on his running shoes and pretend like stretching was actually going to improve this god awful experience. Ibe was right; it was a morning ritual for him, one that he’d started after beginning therapy years ago and followed with religious fervor. But he hadn’t been running for two weeks. Or maybe three? Since Jessica had left.

“Ready?” Ibe asked.

And they started.

Max studied him as they ran. _Really_ studied him. The way his hot pink shorts rode up so high Max could see the bright expanse untanned, hairless thigh. The way he still wore that god-awful mustache that he’d always insisted ‘would come back’. (Maybe he was right on that account. The hipsters of Los Angeles all did seem to be sporting similar, nausea-inducing facial hair.) The way his laughter still broke something within Max’s chest and imbued him with pure warmth, pure love, pure friendship.

Ibe had always been there. From the very beginning, when they’d met on assignment in Iraq, threw Max’s shitty suicide attempt, and now—as Max’s entire life seemed to be falling apart.

“I’m gonna be shit company,” Max gasped out, already winded from the quarter mile that they’d run. “And slow down. This isn’t a race.”

“I know for a fact that you can run a six minute mile you oaf—this is purely due to too much alcohol, not enough sleep, and far too much self pity.”

“If you only knew.”

Ibe just ran faster, and Max swore, trying to keep up without losing the non-existent contents of his stomach to the sidewalk.

It was, (in an unrelentingly horrible ‘point for Ibe!’,) a beautiful morning for a run. The sun had come up over the mountains and lit the sky in a beautiful orange and red haze, yet the temperature still hovered in the upper 60s—not the unbearable, sweltering heat that they’d suffered through all month. After about ten minutes, Max finally fell into his rhythm and stopped threatening to hurl his guts at every step of his feet. They ran in complete silence, and the only sound was the heavy panting of their breaths, rising and falling in tandem.

He’d missed Ibe.

They didn’t see each other much. Ibe was rarely in the States for any other reason than a quick gallery show, and most of those happened across the country. Similarly, Max rarely found cause to travel to Japan, where Ibe’s home base was. Instead, they kept up an online relationship—chatting over facebook messenger on a weekly basis and updating each other on anything pressing. Wincing, Max considered how distant he’d been recently—answering Ibe’s messages with a raw ‘yup’ or ‘nope’ and barely engaging him in any sort of back and forth conversation. Ibe deserved more than that. He’d stayed with him through the worst of it all. He’d been the one to call Jessica, to tell her Max wouldn’t be returning from Northern Africa as planned. He’d been the one to listen to the doctors in the hospital, to relay the information to both Jessica and Max (who had done his best to ignore everything said and instead wallow in the fact that he was, quite horribly, still alive.) He’d been the one to follow-up with Max after the fact. To make sure he made all of the requisite appointments with his new therapist and to make sure that he kept up with his fancy new antidepressants and to make sure that he was still breathing.

Max owed him more than this shit.

“Thanks for coming,” he settled on, watching Ibe from the corner of his eye.

They were coming up the hill now, finishing the jog. It was only a brief three miles, but Max still felt like he was about to die. Apparently a diet of whiskey, gin, and beer wasn’t actually good for the system.

Ibe didn’t answer him right away, and instead, they raced the final tenth of a mile just as they used to when they were younger, just starting out in their photojournalist careers. Ibe won, and he stood triumphant on the porch, laughing with energy.

Max collapsed in the front yard and refused to do so much as blink.

“You don’t look good, Max,” Ibe finally said, sitting down beside him in the small swatch of green grass.

_“It even has a yard!” she’d said; so happy and thrilled that they’d finally found the home of their dreams._

_“It has…a patch,” Max had teased in response, trying to hide how woefully depressed he was that even a house situated 50 miles outside of Hollywood with the barest hint of grass carried a 5 million dollar price tag._

“I’m…trying.” Reaching his hand to the sky, Max watched as his fingers curled, then unfurled again, letting through small beams of sunlight.

“Jessica’s worried.”

“Jessica left. She doesn’t need to worry anymore. She gave that up.”

Ibe snorted, then extended a leg in front of him, stretching and considering. “I’ve…talked to her quite a bit in the last few weeks. She left, yes. It doesn’t mean she no longer cares for your welfare. You have a son, Max. You haven’t reached out to them, tried to see them, even called. What’s going on?”

This was true. This was dreadfully, atrociously true. A little more of Max’s facade crumbled within him, and he swore he could feel as it clattered its way down his chest. “I wanted to give them space,” he whispered, pushing himself into a sitting position.

_Ash._

The thought rose, unbidden, and Max was suddenly and violently filled with the urge to vomit.

“Max.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Ibe. I don’t know what else to say. I should’ve been there for Michael. I need to call. I need to go there, do something. I know. I’ll try.” He spoke words, but they barely registered within the chaotic buzzing in his ears.

“Max.”

Ibe reached over and grabbed his hand and it was like suddenly being forced back into reality—a cold bucket of water to the head.

“Shit,” Max muttered.

“Let’s drop this for now. Come to the opening? I’d really love to have you there.”

“I can’t.”

Ibe squeezed his hand in response.

“I can’t, Ibe. There’ll be news reporters there, photographers. I can’t.”

“Max, I know you think you’re hiding here. I know you think you’ve got this alter-ego going, this ‘Max Lobo’ and that no one knows where you came from.”

Max was already cringing at the direction this was going, but he forced himself to turn to Ibe and listen.

“People aren’t stupid. They know your face, and they know your work, and when someone randomly shows up in Hollywood shooting absolutely stunning artistic shots of models and actors, and cars, and whatever other projects you randomly pick up, they dig. The media knows that Max Lobo is Max Glenreed. And they don’t care.”

Raising an eyebrow, Max slumped back down to the grass. “They sure fucking cared when I was getting 6 units of blood pumped back into me.”

“Max, they don’t have it out for you. It was a tragedy. You were famous. You got shit for one damn photograph, and it fucking sucked, but no one wants to see you fail. You’re out from under their radar now. They don’t care. It’s not a big story, the only thing of value in playing it out is shock value.”

It was funny how the worst moment of his life could be summed up so succinctly.

“I don’t want to talk to reporters,” Max said quietly.

“I know.” Ibe lay back next to him, unfolding his limbs against the grass more gracefully than should have been possible. He turned to look at Max and they were suddenly nose to nose, eyes to eyes. “You don’t have to come. I’ll understand if you don’t. But I’d love to see you. And one of these days? You are going to have to get back out there. You can’t hide here forever, Max.”

Closing his eyes, Max felt the warm puffs of air from Ibe’s breath against his face. _Max Glenreed_. It might feel good to finally slip back into that skin. The desire for it wavered dangerously in front of him, suddenly intense and close enough to reach. “I’ll go,” Max relented. He reached down and clutched Ibe’s hand within his own. “Gotta see what shit you’re calling art these days.”

Laughing, Ibe smacked him across the shoulder—playfully, friendly, almost like they used to be. “You better shave before then,” he advised, as they both rolled over and stood up again. “You look like Max Hobo.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re jokes are still shit,” Max laughed, but there was a warmth inside of him, infusing his body with it’s feathered fingertips and for the first time in weeks, he felt almost human.

He was itchy.

It had been quite possibly years since Max had been forced into his tux, and he was uncomfortable, and hot, and fucking itchy. He reached down under his pressed, white shirt collar and scratched at his neck, gritting his teeth and trying to bear it.

Of course a gallery opening at the Annenberg would be a black tie event, and of course Ibe forcibly reminded him that, just because he was an Annenberg Artist of the past, he was under no circumstances to show up in his favorite blue jeans and black sweater. (Max hated to admit to himself that, were it not for the timely reminder, he would have done just that.)

Luckily there were ample amounts of champagne being passed around, as well as ample amounts of small, hooded conversations taking place at each display. It was easy for him to slip by unnoticed, and weave through Ibe’s photographs in almost complete silence.

The subject matter was just so _Ibe_. He’d been struck by inspiration in Izumo, Japan, where he’d first begun photographing athletes in their constant state of movement. This, he expanded on—visiting other countries as well, and documenting children through teenagers in various active sports. It was incredible the way his photographs seemed to capture their very motion. The tightening of muscle, the beading drops of sweat, the intense passion and heartache and sharpened concentration of the subjects.

One in particular seemed to have caught the attention of a very large, very boisterous, very posh, and very obnoxious crowd. Max didn’t need to see it to know which portrait they were studying. Ibe had told him stories of a boy in Japan—a pole vaulter—who seemed to glide through the air as though possessed with wings. He was the one who started the entire series, and Ibe was quite fond of bringing him up in casual conversation. Ibe had tried to bring him here, to America, but something had come up and so he’d ended up traveling alone.

Once the large group had cleared from the area, Max stepped up to the photograph in question.

_**Okumura Eiji** 2018_

_Black and White_

It was truly remarkable. Instead of focusing on the finish, on the excitement and the celebration of landing, Ibe photographed the preparation. The swing of the boy, the bend of the pole, the mid-motion moment where his arms flexed and he pushed himself through the air.

Max could almost feel the wind at his face from looking, or the way the sun beat down on the bright blue track. “Incredible,” he murmured, stepping forward for a closer look.

“Ah, yes. So I am!”

“Ibe!” Max turned to his friend and moved in for a hug. “I know you’ve been chattering on and on about this kid for the last year but it really is incredible to finally see it in person! This is really fantastic work!”

They broke away from each other, and Ibe looked back at his prize winning photo and gave it a small smile. “He’s something, isn’t he?”

“If you’d told me ten years ago that you’d give up documenting war-torn countries and move to sports photography, I’d have thought you were an absolute idiot!”

Grinning, Ibe patted Max on the back. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.”

“Anytime, I mean, really, it’s—” Max cut off and Ibe followed his gaze, to where the crowd had just split for a stunning woman in long, formal dark blue.

“Ahh—”

“Jessica.” Max said. “Ibe, you didn’t tell me she would be here, you didn’t—” he cut himself off again, furious at the implication in his own voice. Of course she would be here. She’d been friends with Ibe almost as long as Max had been, and she’d always taken an interest in his work. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I should have realized.”

Smiling towards her, and giving a wave, Ibe turned back to Max. “No, I’m sorry. I should have been more forthcoming with you. It was shitty of me, but I just wanted to get you out of that house and I worried that if I told you…Jessica!” he announced, turning towards her again. “So wonderful to see you again!”

They engaged in typical Hollywood fashion—a kiss to a cheek, a hug close, and ample compliments towards each other’s get-up. Once that was all out of the way, Max cleared his throat.

“Max,” she said.

There were no hugs. No kisses. Just a long, stare between them, and a desperate pattering of Max’s heart at his chest. “How are..how’s Michael?” he asked. His palms were starting to sweat at his sides and he wiped them against his pant legs.

“He’s fine. He’s doing well. Their baseball team advanced to semis this week so it’s all he can talk about. He’d love to see you there, you know. If you can make a game?”

She was speaking to him as though he were a friend, a mere acquaintance, and he wanted to sink through the floor. _How could he have been so stupid to let her get away, how could he have—_

“Max?” Ibe asked, nudging against him.

“I miss you.”

This was 100% absolutely, desperately not the sentence that he’d planned, nor was a sentence that should have ever been uttered in so public of a space. Her face shuttered for a moment, going blank, and then she swallowed and managed another bright, beaming smile. “We miss you too.”

It was too polite. Max wanted a fight, a brawl, a screaming match of knife-like words meant to wound and maim. And then he wanted the follow up. The desperate attraction, the shove up against the wall and kiss like there’s no tomorrow kind of follow-up.

This wasn’t that, and he felt sick to his stomach with the realization that she really, irrevocably thought this was over.

He couldn’t let her leave without telling her, he couldn’t let her slip past him one more time. “Jessica, please. Please—”

“Max,” Ibe warned, but there was nothing to be done for it.

“Please come back, I love you.”

Her eyes flashed once—exotic and green, then she stepped up to Max’s shoulder, almost touching, leaning in towards the photo. “Okumura Eiji,” she murmured. “This is stunning, Ibe.”

Max didn’t know what to do. He wanted to touch her, to brush against her bare shoulder and wait for the spark of electricity between them that had to still be there.

Instead, she cocked her head, a very small and delicate movement. “Max,” she whispered. “I don’t want to make a scene. Please know I wish it wouldn’t have come to this. I’ve contacted a lawyer, and I’ll be filing for divorce. I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.” She reached out a hand and brushed it along his arm for a single moment, then she turned back to Ibe. “It’s lovely, Ibe. So beautiful. I’m going to walk the gallery now and hopefully I’ll catch you later.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowds in the bright white lights of the gallery.

And Max was empty. A shell. Nothing within him but the terrible beat of his heart against the hollow walls of his chest and the knowledge that it was really, truly over.

“Shit. You alright?”

Ibe reached for his shoulder, for a friendly hug of support, but Max just shrugged out of the embrace. Though it felt a shaky, skeleton of a thing, he saw Ibe relax incrementally. “It’s alright.” Max said. “It’s fine, knew it was coming.”

“Did you though? Shit. I didn’t think she’d tell you here, of all places…”

“Ahh…” He pushed the hair back from his eyes, then wrinkled his nose as it fell right back into place. “Yeah. Well, I deserved it. You know she was gonna do it?”

“Max, I—”

“No. No, nevermind, it’s on me. Not your fault. Besides!” Max gave him a friendly shove. “It’s your gallery opening! Go celebrate! Go talk up that ridiculously rich looking crowd over there and convince ‘em to buy some photos! I’m fine, I’m going to walk around a little more, but then I’m going to head home for the night.”

Ibe looked thoroughly unconvinced, as though he might actually put up a fight on the matter. Luckily, another waiter moved into their vicinity, tray full of crystal stemware filled with champagne.

“Here!” Max offered, grabbing two of the flutes. “Lets toast! To…”

“Friendship?” Ibe offered.

“To friendship!”

“To no radio-silence on your end ever again?”

Groaning, Max lifted his drink and lightly touched Ibe’s with a small _tink_ of sound. “To no radio-silence ever again.”

“Alright.” With that, Ibe smiled, and downed the contents of his flute in one quick gulp.

Max followed suit, letting the cold fizz of the bubbles tickle the back of his throat first before swallowing. The roar in his ears was growing louder, the heat in the room was almost stifling, and Max felt the sudden urge to be horribly sick all over the floor.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow, alright?” Ibe was saying. “Please…Max…don’t do—”

“Yep!” Max interrupted before Ibe could give substance to his thought. The damn smile was still plastered on, wearing thin with use, but it was enough. Ibe nodded, hugged him once, then walked back out to the center of the room, stopping by each group of guests and offering his thanks.

His thoughts were starting to ache against the inside of his head, each pushing for dominance, each darting back and forth and back and forth behind his eyes.

_I need a drink._

_She’s leaving._

_I need a drink and something stronger, something to make me sleep so I don’t do something I regret._

_She’s leaving, she’s leaving, she’s—_

The waiter with the glasses came back by, and Max traded his empty champagne flute for a full one, downing it in one swallow. The waiter gave him a stern look, but took the second glass without comment. Max only saw how blond his hair was, and how muddy brown his eyes were.

Not green.

Not sparkling, and full of mischief, and danger, and…

Max shook his head. He was suddenly and very aware of the weight of his cellphone in his tux pocket. Looking around, he spotted Ibe, already deep in conversation with the owner of the gallery. Now was as good a chance as he was going to get to slip out unnoticed, and so he took it—walking the edge of the room, glancing at photos as he went, as though he were quite purposely making his way towards something beautiful, something artistic, something that was not the exit.

Then, slipping through the foyer and nodding his thanks at the doormen, he hurried down the stairs of the building and around the corner, reaching a hand in his pocket.

“Fuck,” he muttered, scrolling through texts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

There it was. A single text message.

Unknown Number

\+ 1 (213) 480 8781

_**hey daddy ;)** _

Fumbling the message open, he quickly saved the number as nothing more than: A. Then he typed out another note, fingers starting to shake.

_**When are you back from NYC?** _

He hit send, quickly before he could lose his nerve, then dropped the phone back in the pocket of his tux pants, and hailed a cab.

As one might expect, the Trader Joes of Beverly Hill was not exactly a happening place at 11 p.m. on Thursday night. This suited Max just fine as he was still dressed to the nines (though his bow tie was currently unfurled, falling lifelessly around his neck) and was already, quite fantastically drunk. He clutched a bottle of two-buck-chuck to his chest, throwing his head back at varying moments to chug the foul wine, and lazily pushed his grocery cart around the store, stopping every now and again to throw in another item. (So far he’d chosen white cheddar popcorn, an beautiful trio of herb encrusted smoked salmon that, according to the package, was ‘the ultimate in entertaining’, and a very large, and very ripe looking butternut squash.)

“Excuse me…umm…Sir?”

He paused in the middle of the act, a bit of white wine dripping down his chin, and he reached up a hand to wipe it away. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll pay for it.” It was almost impossible not to collapse in a fit of giggles at his horrible response, but he stoically tried to squeeze the cork back into the top of the bottle.

“Umm…”

The poor girl looked completely lost, not quite sure what the appropriate response might be to a drunk man in the middle of the grocery store. There was a tremor of guilt that niggled at him for putting her in such a position, but the desire for a nice, blackout drunk seemed to be winning over. “Look, I’m sorry…Megan?” he apologized, trying to make out her nametag through blurry vision.

Nodding uncertainly, she looked back over her shoulder as though hoping for another team member to show up to her rescue.

“Shit.” He was starting to sweat—either from the heat of the summer night, or the weight of his tuxedo, or, most likely, the very large amount of alcohol he’d consumed. So, he took the most reasonable course of action, uncorked the bottle once more, and drank it down to the bottom. “I’ll pay,” he repeated.

“Sir, I’m going to need to call the police—”

“No! No, no, I’m so sorry I’m…” the very aisle he stood in seemed to quake underneath his feet and he stumbled, grabbing ahold of the cart for balance. “Fuck, here…” he fumbled in his tux coat for his wallet, and drew out two twenties. “Here, take it.”

“Sir,” she turned then, calling over her shoulder, “God damnit, a little help Alec?” then tried to push the wad of cash back in her hands. “Sir, is there anyone we can call for you to—”

“I’ll take him home.”

They both turned at that—the girl with a considerable sigh of relief, and Max with a full body shiver that ran down his spine.

“Come on, old man.” Grabbing at Max’s arm and ducking underneath, Ash helped him stumble from the cart. “Jesus, you’re heavy.”

“Not old,” Max managed. “I need those groceries.”

“Yeah. That salmon’s gonna taste great while you puke up all the shitty wine you just drank.”

“I need groceries,” Max repeated. Everything was wrong now, everything was suddenly awful now that the wine was gone, and the girl was glaring judgmentally at him, and that Ash fucking Lynx was magically here, helping him outside. “Where did you come from?”

“You texted. Hey, you drive here?”

“Nope. Cab.”

“Fuck.”

Ash led him out of the store and down the side walk a way, until they were under a street lamp that glowed orange in the newly dark sky. “Can you stand?”

Max was drunk, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk, and right now he very much needed to be that drunk to accept this ridiculous turn of events. “Where the fuck did you come from?” he settled on. Belligerent drunk familiar and so he let it all out. “Thought you were visiting family. How’d you even get here? How’d you know where here was?”

“Lovely. 20 questions with a drunken idiot.” Slipping back out of Max’s arm, Ash let go and watched him stumble for a moment, regaining his balance. “You texted me.”

“You said that. I believe what I texted was a simple question: were you still in New York. Not the coordinates to my location.”

Ash quirked an eye up at him and grinned and Max finally took him in for the first time since being ‘rescued’ from the Trader Joes. It was the first time he’d seen him wearing street clothes—looking normal, looking his age in a simple white t-shirt and black skinny jeans—and fuck if it didn’t _do_ something to him. He ached with how badly he wanted to touch him.

Ash just crossed his arms at his chest and watched Max, those green eyes cutting once more through darkness. “GPS. Tracked your number.”

“What are you, an undercover FBI agent who models on the side?”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Seriously, what the fuck. I sent you a text and you show up at my neighborhood grocer?”

“Jesus, who the fuck says grocer, old man? Come on. You gotta go home and sleep it off. Okay?”

“With you?”

Fuck. He had no idea why he’d said it, only that as soon as it escaped his mouth it was the only thing he could think about. Of course he wanted Ash to go home with him, of course he wanted to fuck him, to watch him get on his knees again, to listen to the soft groans he made as Max—

Fuck. His palms were sweating, and Ash was still staring at him, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“You wanna play dirty, _Daddy_?”

And shit, there it was. That mouth. Those lips, the hint of white teeth, and it was suddenly everything Max could do not to lean forward, grab Ash’s hair and force their mouths together.

“Yeah,” Ash nodded, smile growing. “You want to fuck me.”

It was impossibly hot out here, under the black of the night sky, and Max felt a flush of heat creep from his neck to his cheeks. “Uh…”

Ash shrugged. “Let’s get you home. Then we’ll talk.”

“I’m not that drunk.” In the moment, Max realized how petulant it sounded, but it was true. Wine gave him a heady rush right off the bat but it was already fading to background noise. He was warm with it, but no longer dizzy, no longer plagued by muddled senses.

Considering this, Ash waived down a cab for them, then looked back to Max as it pulled up to the curb. “Yeah,” he conceded. “Yeah, not that drunk.” Then he smirked, and evil little thing that coiled towards his cheeks. “You’ll be more fun this way.”

They both climbed into the cab, Max first, then Ash, and Max gave over the address to his house—only a few miles up the road. He was wishing more than anything that his mouth didn’t taste of stale champagne, or two dollar wine, or… “Hey? You gotta cigarette?”

“Nope. Where’d yours go?”

With a heavy sigh, Max threw himself dramatically back in his seat, and looked out the window, and the kaleidoscope of headlights and taillights, weaving in and out. “Wife.”

“Interesting. She going to play with us also?” Ash teased. He reached a finger up, twisting it in a lock of hair at his ear.

“She left me.”

The curling finger stopped, and Ash wrinkled his nose, and swallowed, as though trying to get rid of a foul taste. “And she took your cigarettes in the divorce?”

Max actually barked a laugh at this, surprised that he still had one left in him. “No,” he smiled. “No, divorce isn’t final. I just saw her tonight, at a gallery opening. Knew she’d be there and she’s always hated the habit so I didn’t bring any. She has my son, you know? She’s leaving me, and taking him and…I’ve felt empty before. Barren, like nothing could grow within the cracks of my being, nothing sought light. But this is different. Painful.” There was no good reason for him to be chattering this much in front of Ash, to be giving him this much of his fucking life story, but wine made him talkative, and if he weren’t talking, then he’d probably be doing something far more incriminating.

_Like reaching for that abandoned tendril of hair at Ash’s cheek._

Ash reached out, running a finger along the edge of Max’s thigh. “When I’m empty like that, I imagine a color. Any color, just pick one. The goal is to close your eyes, and breathe it in—as much as you can. Fill your entire body with it. Then slowly breath it out, let it go.” He pursed his lips, as though suddenly self-conscious.

Max had never seen him this bare, this open, and he almost couldn’t breathe with the energy of it—the closeness, the spilled secrets, the _something more_. “Therapist?”

It was like watching a door shutter closed. Ash’s eyes went blank first, then he laughed—a forced and stilted thing—before unbuckling his seatbelt, and reaching a hand over to palm at the crotch of Max’s pants.

“Fuck,” Max exclaimed in surprise. He grabbed Ash’s wrist and pushed it back to the middle seat. “Fuck,” he gasped, “just wait.”

There was something there. A crack that if he prodded, might open into a gaping chasm. For some reason, despite the fact that Ash had been the one to bring it up, the mention of a therapist had sent him running for cover—sent him back into a different character almost. If Max had been more sober, less emotionally compromised, and not fucking enormously turned on by the kid’s savagery, he might have considered poking a bit more and seeing what happened.

As it was, he focused on his breathing and tried to steady himself, forcefully holding Ash’s hand to the worn leather of the back seat. “You stole my wedding ring.”

Nodding, Ash watched him carefully, staying quiet.

“Don’t fuck with me again,” Max warned. His voice was tenuous at best though, nervous, and higher pitched than it had any right to be.

“I gave it back.”

“Ash—”

The cab driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, then looked back at them in the rearview mirror, eyes cold and judgmental. “This one?” he asked, irritation strong in his voice.

Letting go of Ash’s hand, Max leaned over the center console. “Yep. This one, right here.” He counted out bills, cramming them into the man’s hand, and then he and Ash were out, standing on the barren sidewalk, Max’s perfect suburban house towering over them both.

They walked to the doorway together, but when Max paused to fumble for his keys, Ash was suddenly on him, pushing him back into the small alcove of the front porch. One hand slammed into the siding, grazing Max’s ear, and the other went right back to his crotch, squeezing tightly.

“Jesus, fuck,” Max gasped.

Squeezing harder, Ash rose up on his tiptoes, lips right against Max’s ear. “I can’t wait to make you fucking come,” he whispered. Then he let go, turning back towards the locked door, waiting.

All thoughts of the missing wedding band were gone, vanished, no longer of any importance whatsoever. There was an electric field surrounding Ash now, like in the club—a siren call, impossible to ignore. He fumbled the keys free, finally got the fucking door unlocked, and they stumbled inside, a mass of tangled limbs, mouth against mouth, skin against skin, hands pulling hair and touching, touching, touching—

“Fuck, Ash… fuck, we need to…I need to—”

“No,” Ash ordered. “Bedroom. Where’s the bedroom?”

His voice caught too, anxious and breathy and just as desperate and so Max grabbed his hand, pulling him up the stairs and to the master bedroom. The alcohol was still thick in his veins, sluggish and pulsing, but there was a half a bottle of whiskey on the dresser and so he pulled it off, twisted open the cap, and drank before passing it off to Ash.

Even in this simple act, Ash was impossibly beautiful. Max watched his throat work as he swallowed at the warm liquid, once, then twice, then three times, before handing it back and swiping at his mouth with the back of a wrist.

“Well?” he asked.

His lips were reddened, just from that small moment of sucking at the bottle, and his cheeks were flushed with desire. There was the whisper of question in the air, a decision that needed to be made, a moment that branched into two separate paths. The space around them brimmed with possibility and danger, and the pull was magnetic. Max put one foot forward, the rubber of his heel causing the wood to creak underneath him, and suddenly the choices condensed into one.

He was doing this.

There was no turning back.

Ash licked his lips, then brought the bottle to them once more, swallowing another large mouthful and his bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thunk. Carefully screwing the cap back on the bottle, he placed it on the dresser. “Are you ready?” he whispered, words coiling tight like a serpent, preparing to strike.

Max could only nod, entirely possessed by that voice. The whiskey sat heavy in his stomach, unfurling in warm, beckoning tendrils, and he reached a hand for Ash’s face, almost curling a palm around his cheek.

Faster than a lynx, Ash grabbed his wrist, holding him in place with an implausibly strong grip. “Do you trust me?” he asked, quiet and deadly.

_He shouldn’t._

_This needed to stop now. There was no good reason to see it through, he was drunk, he was unreasonable, Jessica…_

_Jessica was leaving him._

_Jessica was…_

Max lifted his free hand to the dresser top, carefully laying flat the framed photo of their wedding day. “I don’t trust you for a fucking second,” he said. “But I’m ready.”

Laughing, Ash let Max’s arm drop, then stepped close, so that they were face to face. Ash was just slightly shorter than Max—his nose came to Max’s lips, and it brushed against them softly. “Stand still,” he ordered.

His hands came up to Max’s shoulders, gently sliding the tux jacked from them and letting it fall to the floor with a gentle swish of sound. Then his fingers began to work at the buttons of Max’s dress shirt. The nails were still black, but the paint was chipped, in some places down to the cuticle. It looked as though he’d been chipping at it with his teeth, with his fingers. Anxious habits that are so hard to break.

The thought passed briefly, and there was a tightening in Max’s throat for only a moment. He wasn’t sure anymore if it was desire or if it was concern. Ash was 19. A kid.

_I shouldn’t be doing this._

“Stay with me, Daddy.”

Ash bit at the curve of Max’s neck, and it suddenly didn’t matter anymore if he should or shouldn’t be doing this, all he knew was he was more turned on than he’d ever been in his entire life. He let Ash strip the shirt away, pulling it from his arms, and tossing it to the floor. Ash led him to the side of the bed, leaning into him until Max sat hard, sinking into the softness of the mattress. Then Ash’s legs were straddling his hips and Max could already see the hard outline of his cock under those tight, black jeans. “Jesus…” he whispered.

Smirking, Ash threaded his fingers through the fine hair at Max’s temples. “Just Ash is fine.”

“You egotistical little fucker.”

“Guilty as charged.” He nodded his head, licking at the shell of Max’s ear. “You like it though,” he hissed.

This last part was punctuated by a slow rock of his hips against Max’s chest and Max thought he was going to fucking burst with how badly he wanted those jeans off Ash’s hips.

“You trust me?” Ash whispered again.

His voice was ghost-like, barely present, only enough to raise the hairs at Max’s neck. All he could do was nod, he was too far gone with it, he needed it, needed more, needed everything Ash was going to give him.

Backing off his hips, Ash turned to the backpack that lay by the dresser, ignoring the groan of loss that Max let out. “Hang on,” he called over his shoulder.

Max fell back onto the bed, the grey comforter cradling his body. Closing his eyes, he tried to will his erection down, tried to think of something else, of anything else, tried to make a rational, adult decision.

It didn’t happen. Ash is an adult, the voice in his mind kept repeating. He’s of age, you’re newly single, enjoy it, enjoy it, enjoy it—

The bed dipped as Ash crawled up next to him, and Max opened his eyes to the clanking sound of metal.

Handcuffs.

“Oh…” he said, looking anywhere but at Ash. “Uh…I’m not sure—”

“Trust me.”

Ash crawled fingers down Max’s arm, past his elbow and down the tender flesh of his inner arm. He closed them around Max’s wrist, snaking the curve of the handcuff around, and drawing Max’s hand to his mouth. Then he swallowed Max’s forefinger, sucking at it obscenely for just a second, before letting go with a pop and clicking the metal cuff closed.

“Ash…” He paused. He had no words. The cuffs were heavier than he’d ever imagined them being and this was suddenly so real, and so intense, but still his cock pushed obscenely against the soft fabric of his tux pants, not at all deterred.

“Scooch up,” Ash murmured.

He moved with Max, helping him wiggle to the center of the bed. Then he pulled at Max’s arm, raising it over his head and letting it rest at the metal headboard.

“Convenient bars,” Ash grinned. Carefully, he pulled up Max’s other wrist, threaded the handcuffs through the middle metal pole, then clicked it into place also.

“Ash, I’m not sure…” Max pulled against the headboard, testing it out. It didn’t move an inch. They’d never tried this—him and Jessica. Their sex lives were good, frequent, but unimaginative in the way that only parents can be. Michael slept just down the hall from them and even on their wildest nights, they were done quickly, and silently.

_Don’t think of Jessica._

Ash was moving down the bed now, straddling Max once more, then bending down and licking a stripe down his belly, to the closure of his pants. “Fuck, you taste good,” he said, kissing along the waistband, down to one hip, and then over to the next.

Max was starting to lose it. He pursed his lips, trying not to let out the small cries of pleasure, but somehow sound still escaped—loud in the heavy silence of the house. “Ash, stop, fuck I need—”

“I know what you need. Trust me.” His eyes were hooded as he looked up at Max, chin still resting against Max’s groin. He pushed himself up incrementally, fingers crawled up Max’s thighs, then worked at the closure of the tux pants. “Fuck,” he breathed as Max’s cock sprung free. “Fuck, I forgot how big you were. Oh fuck.”

Ash breath was hot against Max’s thighs and he groaned, a deep, feral thing. He couldn’t move—Ash was on top of his legs and his hands were painful, already chafing with his desperation to pull away and touch himself. “Ash, please—”

“Chris,” Ash breathed.

The switch wasn’t completely unsuspected, but Max still jumped a little at the ease that the secondary name fell from his lips. “Chris, then” Max murmured. “Chris, please touch me. Please, I need—”

“Just be patient, Daddy.” With that, he slid the pants and briefs from Max’s body, stopping only to work off each sock as well. Then he moved off the bed, casual and cat-like.

Max was completely naked. The air was suddenly chill around him, and he felt goosebumps pepper at his flesh. “Chris?” he called, straining his neck to watch him move to the backpack again.

Chris stood, reaching for the bottle on the dresser and taking another long drink. Then he paused for a moment, fingers moving atop the wood.

“Chris?”

“Patience.”

Max squeezed his eyes closed as tight as he could. His nerves were thrumming, crazy things, electric in their movement. He felt as though he could barely sit still and yet he was motionless, swallowing again and again at the back of his throat as his heart beat frantically against his chest.

“Done,” Ash said, breaking the deafening silence. He wandered back over to the bed, standing at Max’s right side. Then his hands crept down, first to the hem of his t-shirt which he slowly pulled from his head, working his shoulders out last. This, he tossed to the side before toeing out of his shoes and socks. Reaching over, he brushed a stray hair from Max’s brow, then leaned down and kissed him.

It was soft, and tender, and tasted of the whiskey they’d been drinking and Max tried to chase him up as he backed away but the damn handcuffs wouldn’t let him move far enough. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Ash grinned, flashing the white of his smile. “You have no idea.” Then he reached down, unbuttoning the top of his jeans.

Swallowing hard, Max watched as he pushed them down his hips, peeling them from his skin. He had only tight black briefs on, and his cock was hard against them. There was a small spot of wet already, leeching into the fabric, and Max had a sudden desire to bury his face there, to suck at him through the fabric and taste everything.

Then Ash hooked a finger in the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down.

Max could hardly breathe. He was long and lean and even the bare trickle of hair that led from his belly to his cock was golden blond. His heart beat so fast Max was sure it was shaking the entire bed. “Oh god.”

Leaning over, Ash held a finger to Max’s lips. Then he reached for his cock with the other, stroking it, thumbing at the slit and dragging precum up the shaft. “I want you to fuck me,” he murmured.

Groaning, Max closed his eyes, trying to ignore the way his cock bucked at that. It had been so long, so impossibly long since—

“You ever fuck a man?”

Max started, blinking the surprise from his eyes. “I…”

“Women are too soft. Too fragile,” Ash continued, not waiting for his response. “We’re harder,” Ash said, reaching down for something at his feet then crawling up on the mattress again. “More lines, more angles. Solid in a way a woman can never be.”

_I did. Back in Iraq. My best friend and I…_

He winced. Couldn’t give voice to the thought. Instead, just watched as Ash crawled up next to him, fingers clasped tight around a small bottle of lube.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to have your cock inside of me,” Ash whispered in his ear. He uncorked the bottled, let it spill into the palm of one hand. Then he sat up on his knees, and let the lube drip down his chest, following it with his fingers. “Oh god,” he moaned. “God I need you inside of me.”

Max watched as he paused at a nipple, circling his finger around it and then pinching the bud with a loud gasp. It was almost too much, almost a caricature of a thing, but Max couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ash, writhing beside him and spreading his fingers down his own body.

“Jesus christ Ash,” Max moaned, pulling at the handcuffs. The skin at his wrists was sore already, and he just wanted to touch, to press against Ash’s chest, to trail his hand down to Ash’s groin and let the swell of his cock fill his hand. “Fuck,” Max groaned. “Fuck, okay, okay, fuck yes…”

“Oh god, Daddy,” Ash continued, wanton and flushed and blissfully wet. He let a hand drop to his cock for a second, giving it a pump of motion, then he trailed fingers down his thigh, around to the curve of his ass.

“Oh fuck,” Max moaned, knowing what was coming next. “Oh fuck, oh fuck—”

“You like this,” Ash murmured, bending over Max and letting his tongue glance the head of Max’s cock. “You like watching me, watching me touch myself, watching me beg for more…”

“Fuck!” Max cried. “Please, please more, please…”

“Patience.” Chris braced himself, one hand on Max’s chest, then swung a leg over positioning himself only a whisper away from the end of Max’s cock.

Max wanted to cry with how unfair it was, with how badly he wanted to be touched.

Instead, Ash let his fingers move back to the swell of his ass again, the black of his nailpolish rubbing against his firm thigh before disappearing. He squirmed for a moment, situating himself above his fingers, then his arm began to move, pumping in and out and in again. “Oh,” he moaned, wantonly. “Oh, Daddy, oh god.”

He worked himself open on Max like that, first one finger, then two, and Max could hear the sound of them, the slippery squelch of the lube in his hole. Ash’s mouth was open, in a perfect ‘o’ of a shape, and he let little gasps of sound escape as his fingers rocked back and forth.

“God,” he finally said, still working at his hole. “You’re so big, Daddy, I wanna take you all, I wanna—” he cut off with another moan.

“Ash, oh fuck, _Chris_ , please. Please, I need you to, I need you to touch me, please—” Max cut off, his begging loud in his ears, and he could feel the flush of humiliation starting to creep up his chest, to his neck, to his ears.

“Yeah,” Ash murmured. “Oh god, yeah, I’m getting so close, I’ll be able to take you...god I want to take your whole cock...” He pulled his fingers out then, slick and dripping with lube, then brought them to his mouth and licked up the length of one.

It was so fucking hot, Max thought he was going to cry.

“God,” Ash groaned, breathing hard. “Fuck.” Then he pressed his hand against Max’s mouth.

And Max parted his lips. He tasted musky, a dark, heavy sort of thing, and the lube was flavored—strawberry. He swallowed around Ash’s fingers, licking them clean, wanting more, wanting anything Ash would give him.

Instead, Ash pulled away, reaching back again and spreading himself wide. Lining up, he sank down on his thighs slowly, so slowly, until the tip of Max’s cock pressed at his entrance.

Max tried so hard to keep his hips still against the bed, but he couldn’t help stuttering of them, the desperate need for friction against his aching cock.

“Wait,” Ash groaned, then sank lower still. His fingernails scratched at Max’s chest, and he threw back his head, breathing hard. “Fuck, wait. God, Daddy, you’re so fucking big.” He dropped lower still, taking Max’s cock all the way down to the root. “Fuck me,” he murmured. “Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me.”

Max started to move, jerking up into him and watching the way his face changed, mouth opening, raw syllables dropping from it, moans and groans of pleasure and tiny little cries as he wrapped a hand around his own cock. “Fuck, you feel….god you feel amazing,” Max cried, trying to hold on, trying to not give in to how badly his body wanted release.

Moving up on his thighs, Ash started pushing back against him, rocking onto his cock again and again, fist working fast at his own. “Fuck me,” he cried, “Daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck—”

He jerked against Max, thighs slamming into Max’s chest and still he held on, begging for more and more and more.

Ash kept pumping his cock between his fingers, hard and fast and Max couldn’t take his eyes off of how beautiful he was, how hot, and wet, and fucking red the head of his cock was, how his hair was sticking, wet with sweat to his face, how his breathing was coming in sharp pants and gasps.

He stuttered against Max then, crying out, and then he was coming at last, cum spurting between his fingers and coating Max’s chest, and face, and lips.

Max opened his mouth, tasting it on his lips. Savored the taste of Ash’s bitter spend, and kept shoving into him, harder and harder, thrusting against Ash’s small hips. His hands were tightened into fists and he was pulling against the handcuffs so hard they were sure to give at any second and he just kept going, the bed shaking, and Max groaning, “oh, oh, oh, oh–” louder and louder and finally...

... _finally_ , Max was coming too—releasing deep inside of Ash. It was so hot, and so warm, and he could feel it start to trickle down his cock as Ash collapsed against him—wet, and sticky against his thighs.

“Fuck,” Max groaned. Ash lay against him, head tucked into the divot of Max’s shoulder blade. He was breathing hard, and every puff of exhalation whispered against Max’s skin. There were no words. Just as suddenly as the intensity of the orgasm had hit, the inevitable slide back down weighed heavy between them. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to think, or even breathe.

The buzz of the air conditioner kicked on, and still they lay—Ash a dead weight against him, the only sign of life that steady breath against Max and the rise and fall of his back. Closing his eyes, Max breathed in the scent of Ash’s hair—mellow and sweet with soft notes of almond. It wasn’t hard, like Ash was, or deadly like Chris. It wasn’t young, or old, or anything at all really, just the brand of shampoo he’d used that morning, yet Max felt a sadness within him begin to stretch, threatening to open.

Ash’s eyelashes fluttered against his chest for a moment, before he began to move, pushing himself up, then rolling over to Max’s right side. “Christ, you’re a good fuck.” Ash rubbed at his eyes, then reached up and unhooked the cuffs.

As heavy as they were, they were still apparently ‘toys’ and didn’t need a key. They were apparently fairly decent quality though, as Max’s wrists were ringed red, and chafed sore from his pulling. He rubbed at them, then let his arms drop by his sides, watching the way Ash studied him.

“Sorry,” he said, almost as if he’d read Max’s mind. “That looks painful.”

Max flushed. “I’ve...I’ve never done...” This was hardly the reason he’d been nervous, hardly the reason he’d flinched initially at the cuffs, but it was the only thing he could think to say that wouldn’t make him flush more.

“Oh.” Ash.extended a hand over Max’s belly, dipping fingers into the cooling mess around his groin. He blinked, as though considering, then, clearly dropping it, smirked wickedly. “I remember the way you taste.”

“God…” Max started, but his tongue was heavy now, numb. He was satiated in a way that made it near impossible to form a complete, coherent thought.

Ash dragged a finger up the curve of his belly, past the dip of his chest and then still further. The trail glistened, sticky and cold, and Max brought a hand down atop his fingers. “Ash…”

“Chris,” Ash corrected, but he smiled lazily. “You tasted yourself last time.”

And he did. Max remembered it clearly, the flinch away, the recoiling of his stomach, and then…

Then…

The taste of himself on Ash’s lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I…”

And Ash crept his fingers closer, sliding up Max’s neck and around the angle of his jawline, to the curve of his lips. “Open,” he whispered.

There was something about his voice that was magnetic, hypnotizing. Max would do anything he asked, if only he would stay like this, pressed naked against him. He opened his lips, and Ash let him suck his forefinger clean. “Fuck, kid,” he gasped, as soon as Ash pulled away again. “Jesus fuck, you’re something else.”

“I’m anything you want me to be, Daddy.”

Max turned to him, meeting eyes and watching the green of them against the enormous black pupils. The statement was jarring, not quite right. Almost…rehearsed sounding. And suddenly Max remembered the way Ash’s pupils had been blown wide the night at the bar, just as they were now. “Hey,” he said, reaching a finger out to touch Ash’s cheek. “You on something?”

Grunting, Ash rolled over and stood from the bed. “You got a cigarette around here?”

“Top dresser.” Max watched him walk over, the way his cock hung between his legs, no longer erect but still fucking cut and gorgeous. His entire body was perfect, one long, graceful curve from foot to neck. His arms were muscled, but not overly so, his back rippled with motion, and the backs of his thighs were taut and covered with fine, golden hair, so sparse that you could barely see it unless you were close.

Max had been close.

God, already he was back to that desperate want for touch, to feel, to trace his fingers along the v line of his hips down to the curve of his thighs and to take him wholly in his mouth. Max wanted to swallow him, to groan against his belly, to listen to Ash come apart beneath him.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to displace the nagging thoughts, and rolled to his hip, propping his head up with one hand. Ash had opened the top drawer and was rifling through for a moment before he grabbed the pack of Marlboros from the bottom. He turned, plastic crinkling in his fingers, and pulled a cigarette from the carton. “Light?”

Max nodded towards the dresser again. “Somewhere up there. Bring me one too.”

“Yup.”

Ash found the lighter—a small silver box of a thing that had been a gift from Jessica once upon a time—and clicked it open, holding it close to his face. The glow from it only reached his nose, so his eyes were swathed in darkness, and for a moment, Max could only see the reflection of the flame in each.

A devil.

Then Ash flipped the lighter closed again, tapped out a second cigarette, and made his way lazily back to the bed.

“Here,” he said simply, handing over the unlit smoke.

Taking it, Max put it between his lips and waited as Ash climbed back into bed, laying perfectly across from Max and bending forward to once again light Max’s cigarette with his own. His eyes never left Max’s face, and he didn’t blink, just stared, intense enough to start a flame.

It wasn’t as raw and sexual a moment as last time, in the parking lot. Then there had been a promise of things to come, a wicked curve of Ash’s mouth, a press against Max that went on for just a moment too long.

They lay for a bit then, smoking and watching the thick grey of it expand around them, motes and swirls of tar dancing around their shallow breaths. Max broke the silence first, heaving himself to his back and breaking their hypnotic stare by focusing on the eggshell ceiling as he fumbled with a question hot at his lips. “What are you on?” He finally asked, sucking in another mouth full of smoke and letting it escape ever so slowly from his lips.

Ash didn’t move, just shrugged a little. He also turned to his back, holding the cigarette up and letting it dance in lazy patterns from the movement of his fingers. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if this is going to keep happening.”

“I really don’t see why.”

He frowned, and it made him look so suddenly boyish that Max grinned. “It matters to me. If you need to be high to be…well…this.” He motioned with a hand, then cursed as ash from the butt end of his cigarette fell to the sheets.

“It shouldn’t make a difference.” Ash let his fingers glide idly over his chest, stroking and pressing patterns into the flesh. Slowly he made his way down to his stomach, letting fingers pause there for a moment as his cock grew half hard again. “I am…this. And you like it this way.” He turned just his head, and Max was helpless not to watch as he slowly cupped a hand around his cock, holding it as it hardened completely underneath his soft fingertips. Then he began to stroke himself, taking a drag from the cigarette and then closing his eyes and groaning deeply.

“Ash,” Max tried, but it came out quiet, incomplete. “I…”

Ash writhed next to him, the tug of his hand against his cock suddenly wet sounding. He swirled his hand around, then back down, then around again, letting his thumb graze the head every so often. Then, just as suddenly as he’d begun, he stopped, raising his hand above his head.

His cock was thick and straight, standing up between his thighs, and Ash was breathing hard again, tiny mewls of sound escaping from his lips. “Finish me,” he whispered. “Finish me again, Max…”

The sound of his name on Ash’s lips was all the persuading he needed. Max stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table and then moved against him, reaching down between his legs and letting fingers slide against the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

“Max,” Ash moaned. “Fuck, fuck, touch me. God, I want you to…I need you— he arched his back off the bed gasping as Max gripped him around the base of his cock.

“Wait,” Max whispered, a command of sorts. “I’ll finish you. I’ll do whatever you want. But be you. I want you to be _you_.” The heady buzz of alcohol was still making his head swim, but he suddenly wanted this more than anything else. Wanted to see how Ash was when he wasn’t putting on a show.

Ash’s eyes flew open, and suddenly he looked very small and very afraid.. He raised the cigarette back to his lips and inhaling shakily. “Okay. Yeah…okay.”

Holding him, not moving, just watching the way his breaths shook, Max closed his eyes. “You alright,” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ash whispered. “I’m...I’m…” he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his cock jerking in Max’s hand with the movement. “Yeah.”

Max began to move so very slowly that every pump of his hand felt like it took minutes. “Stay with me,” he said. “Open your eyes, Ash, stay with me, you alright?”

“Oh…” Ash said, so quiet, so perfect. He squinted his eyes closed even tighter, then opened.

His chest was flushed, his neck was flushed, his face was flushed and Max could almost hear the way his heart beat hard at his chest, but he didn’t look away from those piercing green eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispered again. He gripped tighter, pumping once fast, then slowing again, hand wet with Ash’s pre-come. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful—”

“Don’t,” Ash said. “Don’t…don’t call me that…”

Max blinked in surprise, but he kept going, starting to pick up speed, watching the way Ash’s throat bobbed as he swallowed frantically. “You feel it, don’t you Ash? You feel it but you need to wait, you need to wait until—”

“Max.”

It was a sob of a thing, desperate, and wanting, and so unlike the Ash that had just ridden Max so hard. It wasn’t the same person at all. _Chris?_ he thought, then shook his head at that. No, Chris was who he’d seen later. Chris was hard at the edges, rough and dangerous. This was different, somehow. Ash, but...softer. More revealing. He wanted to worry at it, sink his teeth into the mystery and pull it apart bit by bit.

He leaned over instead, kissing up Ash’s neck, gentle and tender, his lips barely brushing the soft skin.

Ash gasped at the contact, jerked his hips once into Max’s hand.

“Wait,” Max said again, drawing back and watching as Ash struggled for breath.

“Fuck, Max, I’m gonna come, Max I can’t—”

“Wait.” His voice was loud, authoritative, and Ash almost looked surprised underneath him. He drew in a long, shaky breath and held it, teeth clenched and hands starting to shake at his sides, and still Max stroked, over and over and over and then.

Then.

There was a beautiful moment where Ash keened so loud it filled the room. “Yes, baby,” Max moaned, “yes, come for me Ash, you can, you can—”

He shook apart with it, screaming Max’s name over and over and cum shot between Max’s fingers, all over his chest again, all over Ash and the bed and the comforter and it seemed impossible how much there was since they’d just done this but Max just kept stroking, pulling him through it.

“Oh my god,” Ash said. “Oh my god, oh god…oh…oh…”

His breathing was starting to steady again, but he was still shaking, so Max reached across and took the still-lit cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray near the bed.

“Fuck,” Ash said, quietly, almost nervous. “Fuck, I didn’t think that was going to happen.” He laughed, a little, nervous thing. “I’ve never…” then he pursed his lips, closing his eyes and throwing one arm over them. “Oh fuck. I’ve never…”

“You’ve never what?” Max asked.

“Nevermind.”

“Aww, come on, kid.”

“Don’t push it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Max watched Ash’s body as he breathed, slower, steadier, finally evening out. His voice had been hard then, full of violence and threat—nothing of the previous softness. “Ash?” he asked quietly.

“Chris.”

“Chris,” Max ceded. There was something very strange going on, something just…not quite right. He was still woozy with the alcohol, and his limbs were heavy and tired from sex, so he really didn’t feel like pushing the issue, just wanted to make sure Ash was alright, and then pass out, post-orgasmic bliss numbing everything. “Just tell me if you’re alright.”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Letting his arm drop to his side, Ash resolutely stared at the ceiling. “Sorry. I don’t usually…just…it’s better if you call me Chris. During sex.”

He was very clearly not alright, and his voice was dropping again, back to that softer version, quiet, and young, and still sexy as hell, just not the voice of Chris. “We don’t have to talk about it,” Max tried. “I’m fucking exhausted. Just want to make sure I didn’t push too hard or anything.”

Ash smiled then, the curve of it growing larger and larger and then he started to laugh. It wasn’t a laugh of joy, or of happiness. It sounded terrified, chaotic and panicked. “I need another cigarette,” he said, rolling from the bed in one harsh sweep of motion and moving back to the dresser.

Max watched as he pulled one out, lit it, hand shaking against his lips. He stayed silent though, not wanting to press, not wanting to make whatever _this_ was, worse.

Bending down, cigarette bobbing in his lips, Ash pulled on his jeans again. Then he turned back to the dresser for a moment, fiddling with something out of sight, before bending at his backpack and shoving things back in. Finally, he made his way back to the bed, crawling up into it and laying back against the headboard. “I’m a nightmare,” he chuckled, sounding so, so sad.

Max squinted at him. “Uh…” Goddamn it he wanted to sleep, not bear witness to some kid’s existential life crisis. Then again, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was already well past ‘some kid.’ He’d driven right past go, he had not collected $200, he had fucked a teenage international model on the bed he and his wife used to share. Talking Ash down from this supposed cliff was probably the least of his problems. “Uh…” he said again.

 _You are abso-fucking-lutely useless in a crisis,_ the ever-so-helpful voice in the back of his mind reminded him.

“Shit,” Ash said, taking a deep drag. “Alright. Here’s the deal. I’m a mess. There’s a lot of bullshit backstory in my life, and I’ve got a lot of issues going on, but you’re a good guy, you’re decent, you’re fucking amazing in bed so…”

His cheeks were hot again, blushing, and Max wrinkled his nose with disgust at how fucking easy it was to win him over.

“Yeah…anyway. You should stay far, far away from me. You got it?” Ash looked over to him.

His pupils weren’t as large, he was clearly coming down from whatever high he’d been on all night. The jade rings around them glowed, large and bright, and his golden eyelashes fluttered above them. Max reached a hand out, wanting to touch him, to feel the pulse at his neck, to chase the thin line of golden chest hair, to feel the way his arms peppered with goosebumps at the whisper of skin against skin. He stopped though, just short of Ash’s collarbone. “You’re so…beautiful,” Max whispered.

“Yeah. I know. Fuck, man, I’m trying to warn you, okay? This should stop, I’m sorry I put you in this position to begin with. Delete my number, don’t call me, whatever. Just stay away.”

“Is that what you really want?” Max asked.

“No.”

He said it so quickly, with no thought at all. Just ‘no,’ a single syllable, rich in the air.

“Then no. No, I’m not going to delete your number.”

“Jesus chris, man, you’re fucking stupid/” Scoffing, Ash threw his head back, clenching his eyes closed for a moment as though supremely frustrated.

“Absolutely, fucking stupid. Yeah, I know.” But there was just that hint of something about Ash, coiled secrets, and dripping danger like drops of poison and he couldn’t stay away, he couldn’t say no because he’d already had a taste. He’d already fallen and there was nothing else left.

“Fuck,” Ash hissed. He shrugged his shoulders, turned to his side, and pushed his head very, very close—so close that their noses touched. “I warned you, Max Glenreed,” he whispered at Max’s lips.

Max didn’t look away. He caught Ash’s eyes with his own and they stared at each other a minute, then two, neither moving, just breathing each other’s air. Finally, Ash caught his lower lip in his teeth and worried at it a bit. He tilted his head ever so slightly, and kissed Max softly before pulling away.

He tasted of cigarettes and sex and Max had never wanted to follow a kiss more than right in that moment.

“I’ll call you.”

He dropped the remains of the cigarette in the ashtray, then rolled out of bed, throwing his t-shirt over his head and grabbing his backpack. With a lingering glance, he raised a finger to his lips, as though warning Max to keep quiet. Then he slipped from the bedroom.

Max heard him take the stairs two at a time, heard him open the front door, then heard it close again—a thump of sound that resonated in his chest. There was nothing left but the soft wrinkle of the sheets next to him, and the still smoking butt in the ashtray, glowering with the last of its embers.


	5. Chapter 5

_June 10, 2019_

_I can't control it like I used to. I wake up and I can't remember hours or days. And the person who is supposed to be helping..._

_Fuck. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to trust. I don't even know who I really am._

__

Despite the late night, and the copious amounts of alcohol, Max woke up at 6 a.m. on-the-dot with a strange thrum of excitement tingling through his nerves. He tried to shake it off—tried to roll back over in bed, pull the comforter over his head, and force himself back into the dark wavering dreamscape of sleep, but he couldn’t ignore it.

It wasn’t the sort of constant buzz of anxiety, but rather a wave like feeling—something that faded just enough that he could close his eyes and then hummed back to life, causing him to toss and turn and throw back the blankets.

It was the sort of energy that he’d had only a few times before. That steady throb of excitement as you enter a new relationship.

Even thinking that made him wince, but still, he threw his legs from the bed, standing and stretching as the morning rays of sunshine filtered in through his blinds in vertical lines along the hardwood floor. The ashtray caught his eye—three cigarette butts sitting there silently. He put a finger to his lips, remembering the touch of Ash’s against his own, and traced along the edge of his jawline, down to his neck. Fuck. Fuck, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ash, about the way his hair fell in his eyes when he smiled, about the way his fingers looked as they crept against Max’s skin, about the heaviness of his hard cock against Max as he rode him, about—

“Fuck!” Max exclaimed, shaking his head. No. No, he was not going there right now. This was another mistake, another stupid moment of failure on his part and—

It had been twice now. How many times does it take for a pattern to emerge?

“Nope, just stop thinking about it,” he murmured, clenching his hair against his temples and pulling briefly as though to dislodge the unfaithful thoughts from his brain with a small dose of pain.

It didn’t work, so he set to banishing them the only other way he knew how: exercise.

Ibe would have proud at how quickly he threw on a pair of jogging shorts and shoes. He flew down the stairs, pausing only to lock the door behind him, and then took off down the sidewalk, aiming for the ocean, or the hills, _anywhere_ that wasn’t the confines of his own mind. The morning was humid, but the sun already burning the mist from the air and setting to work at the dew on the grass. He was sweating almost instantaneously, but it felt good this time, it felt like it was supposed too—the burning of muscles, the deep inhalations, the steady pound of his sneakers against the concrete.

 _Ash looks like a runner,_ he thought. _He’s long, and lithe like one, and his body moves so gracefully—_

He flicked at the button on the side of his phone, turning up the volume and blasting the indie-techno beats of _The Faint_ so loud in his ears that he was probably waking the entire neighborhood as he jogged past.

Eventually, he made it to a small park, about three miles from home. He paused at the drinking fountain for a moment, drinking his fill and then splashing water all over his head and neck trying to cool off. His phone buzzed against his arm, interrupting the song for a couple of seconds, but he ignored it, instead looking to the park trail as other early morning joggers and bikers passed him by with friendly smiles and waves.

It felt good to be back to this. Back to the constancy, back to the jolt of wakefulness the morning jog brought. Back to keeping tabs on his delightfully toned abs which, now that he had crossed the barrier into his thirties, fought a daily battle to dissolve into not-so-seemly stomach flab. He drank again at the fountain again—less this time—and as the song switched over on his phone, he began the three-mile-jog back home.

It wasn’t until he was in the comfort of his air-conditioned kitchen, gulping down his second large glass of water, that he remembered the phone buzzing. He dug it out from his armband, saw one MMS message waiting and swiped it open, then promptly dropped his glass of water, spraying liquid and shards of glass all over the kitchen floor.

 _“Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me!”_ came Ash’s voice, tinny in the speaker of the phone, but still, very much, his voice. The camera was directly behind him, so all Max could see was the curve of Ash’s spine, his fall of blond hair, his thighs still powerful and jerking against…

Against Max.

“Oh fuck.” The floor was dropping out from under him.

_“Fuck, you feel…god you feel amazing.”_

And that. That was very much Max’s voice, thick with arousal, hoarse with desperation, but still, 100% Max.

Ash bent down further in the video, hand working at his own cock, and suddenly Max’s face was in full view—his hands cuffed to the bed behind him, and his eyes closed, mouth open, making these hideously awful mewling sounds of pleasure and desire and sex, sex, sex

 _“Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck—_ ” Ash jerked hard in the video, against Max, moaning as he came...

Max fumbled it off, setting his phone down hard on the counter with a hand already shaking. “Oh shit,” he murmured. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Ash what did you do, oh shit.”

The syllables just kept falling from his lips, and there was nothing he could do about it. His heart was rabbiting in his chest and this time there was no pleasure tied to it at all—just plain, old fear.

Ash could send this to Max’s agent. He could send it to Jessica. He could publish it online for the entire world to see and then…

And then…

“Oh god,” he stuttered out. And then even the headline, that horrid headline, **Pulitzer Prize Winning Photojournalist Found After Apparent Suicide Attempt** , even that would be less incriminating against his character than this.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what this was, if it was blackmail, if it was something entirely benign, if it was a joke or the end of the fucking world.

Cautiously, Max reached for the phone again, as though afraid it might bite. When it didn’t, he quickly found Ash’s number and dialed.

It rang four times, then went to voicemail—a delightfully pert sounding message: “ _Hey, Ash here. If you’re calling to book me, you’ll need to go through my agency. DNA Model Management, 212-226-0083 extension 5. Otherwise, leave a message.”_

The beep was high pitch and tinny and something about it made Max’s vision blur, (or maybe, his vision was blurring out of anger, out of stress.) “Ash. Pick up your goddamn phone and call me now.” He hung up, toed a sneakered foot at a large shard of glass that had landed straight up in the laminate floor with a precision that belied all probability. Then he dialed again.

And again.

And again.

All said and done, he left seven messages. Then, he called Ibe.

“Max. It’s not even seven in the morning.”

Ibe’s bleary voice over the speaker did not sound particularly thrilled, but Max didn’t care—literally nothing else mattered until he settled whatever this was. “I’ve gotta problem.”

“Okay…can it wait until I sleep off the hangover from last night?”

“Uhh…”

“Hell, Max. Seriously?”

He was irritated, pissed off even, but Max could already hear the rustling of movement as he began to dress. Ibe’s friendship over the years was one of the few literal godsends that Max had in his life. It was a friendship that persevered through a constant string of up and downs and as much as Max didn’t want to tell a single soul about this, it would continue on through a sex video.

Ears burning hot, Max squeezed his eyes closed, and tried to relay that this was of an immediate pressing nature, without actually going into any detail over the phone. The only thing running through his head though was the next news headline, **Sex Tape Scandal** , the final nail in his proverbial coffin.

“Okay, I can be there in forty-five minutes or so,” Ibe said tiredly, still rustling on the other end of the line.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Max, you don’t need to—”

“I need to do something, I’m going crazy, I’ll pick you up.” His hands were starting to shake again, and the phone was slippery in his grip.

“Fuck, Max…what did you do?”

“I’ll be there in twenty.” Max hung up, surveying the mess of spilled glass around him again. He grabbed for the paper towels, thought better of it and grabbed for a dishrag, thought better of that and grabbed for his keys, then made a beeline for the garage.

It was the longest twenty minute drive of his life. He held his phone in one fist against the steering wheel, checking it every thirty seconds to make sure he hadn’t received a call from Ash. The highway was already clogged with people trying to make it into the city for work, and he almost got into an accident multiple times, slamming on his brakes after one of his many glances at the screen. By the time he pulled into the Peninsula—the swanky, five-star hotel that the gallery had put Ibe up in for the week, he was a nervous wreck, hands sweating and shaking like he’d just come off a bender.

Ibe was already waiting for him in the curve of the drive, looking preposterously awake for someone who’d jolted out of bed twenty minutes prior. He had his pink polo shirt collar flipped and ready, and his ridiculous boat shoes with the pastel plaid. He looked every bit the preppy American. Normally, Max would have spent ten minutes of the drive back lecturing him about his poor fashion sense. Instead, he focused on the road, lips pinched, leg jumping underneath him with anxiety, and ignoring the way Ibe peppered him with questions.

After the fifteenth iteration of: “ _Max. Come on, what’s going on?_ ” Max finally caved.

“I did something really stupid.”

“Yeah, I gathered, genius.”

“Okay I…see my phone…I…”

Ibe reached for the phone in question and Max almost swerved off the road trying to grab it back from him. “No! No, I don’t mean actually take my phone. I mean…shit. Shit! This is impossible.”

“You are going to give yourself a hernia.”

“Do they have those in Japan?” Max asked. “Always seems like such a stress-free culture. Everyone is nice. No hernias.”

“Max…” Ibe ground out, teeth clenched in irritation.

“Okay. Okay fine. I got drunk last night, and someone came over to the house…someone who really shouldn’t have been coming over to the house and…”

“Okay so you fucked someone. Crazy. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“He just sent me the video.”

The silence in the car was deafening, and Max glanced a look over at Ibe who was just staring at him, mouth wide open. “Like…” Max continued, not sure what else needed to be said, but feeling a desperate urge to fill the void with something other than the heavy weight of disappointment that was clogging the air in the car. “Like a video. Of us…having sex?”

“No,” Ibe drawled sarcastically. “I thought you meant a cat video. One of those nice ones, where the cat jumps in the box. And then back out again.”

“I knew you liked Maru, you ingrate! You told me you didn’t know what I was talking about but here we are, you throwing that adorable cat in my face, don’t you try to deny it—”

“Max!”

It was the yell that did it—Ibe rarely felt the need to raise his voice at all. “Yeah,” Max admitted quietly. “Sorry, my brain is just on full throttle right now, I can’t think of anything, and then I think of everything at once and…yeah. This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

Ibe lowered his head in his hands, his fingers scratching at that space right above his ear. His thinking pose. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Did he send it anywhere?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked. I’m afraid to look. I’m–”

“Have you actually called him and talked about this?” Ibe pressed, interrupting Max.

“Only about a dozen times.”

“Right. So, as far as you know thus far, he has not released it anywhere.”

“I have no idea, Ibe! I haven’t been all over social media or whatever else. I don’t do that shit.”

“Calm down,” Ibe said with an incredibly patronizing tone. “I’m just trying to work out where we are on timeline. I guarantee that if he had released it, you would already be getting phone calls, texts, e-mails. There is no way you would not know.”

“What if he sent it to Jessica.” As soon as he spoke the thought, a wave of nausea rolled deep in his gut and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

“Same with Jessica, okay? She would also be blowing up your phone. I know her.”

“Oh god, Ibe, Jessica. If she finds out…she’ll…she’ll leave for sure and—”

“Oh, Max,” Ibe said. He sat back in his seat and settled a hand against Max’s shoulder. “Max, she is already gone.”

“No!” The traffic surged to a stop in front of him—yet another fucking red light—and he slammed on the brakes so hard that he and Ibe both flew forward with the centrifugal motion of it. “No, it’s not final, nothing’s set in stone, I still have a chance, Ibe, you have to believe me, I still have a chance.”

“Max…no. No you don’t.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Max tried not to think about what a gaping chasm those words opened up within him. “Ibe, no. I’ll fix this. I have to fix this…Michael—”

“Max, she already filed for divorce. Her lawyer worked up all the papers last week. She told me over dinner, the second night I was in town. She thought you’d have gotten them by now—that is why she was confused at the opening.”

“Ibe—”

“Max, I am sorry to be the one to lay it on you like this but…she is gone. She had…well. She is moving in with a friend.”

“That bitch.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think, and he regretted it as soon as they fouled his lips. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry, Ibe—”

“It is okay. It is someone she has known for a long time and she and Michael are moving in at the end of the month with him.

“So she was…having an affair…”

“Max! Jesus Christ do you even listen to what is coming out of your mouth? You just told me all about this teenager you have been engaging in a wildly promiscuous sexual affair with, and you are on her case?” Ibe threw his head back against the seat, as though attempting to give his words even more punch.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I just don’t.. I don’t know what to do. I don’t…she can’t…oh my god.”

“Okay. She was not having an affair, although she has gotten very close, so I would not be surprised to see them end up together. He is actually quite nice. Works in freelance security—”

“He is actually quite nice? Works in security? Fuck me, Ibe, you know this guy and—”

“So!” Ibe interrupted, irritation tingeing his words. “Now that we have covered that, can we get back to the matter at hand? You need to find this kid.”

“Please don’t say kid.” His stomach was roiling and he really, really was going to be sick. “He’s an adult. He’s…Ibe, shit I fucked up.”

“Max.”

They finally pulled into the driveway, and Max cut the engine, listening to the silence around them for just a moment.”I fucked up,” he whispered.

“Your marriage has been hanging by the thinnest of threads for years, Max. You screwing a model on the side is hardly what ended it.”

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah. Okay, yeah, you did, but it is not the end of the world, you will find the _kid_ and talk some sense into him and life will be good again. Can we please go inside? I need coffee. Now.”

At this Max nodded, clicked the doors unlocked, then followed Ibe from the car to the front steps. The door was left unlocked in his haste to do something, to do anything that wasn’t thinking about the awful video, and so they pushed right in.

The kitchen lay untouched—shards of glass still scattered everywhere, and water pooling on the floor. “Shit,” Max said. “Shit, sorry—”

“Hey. You clean that mess up. I will make coffee. Then we can sit at the table like high-functioning adults and have a nice conversation before I have to get back to the hotel to catch my ride to the airport.”

“Oh fuck, you’re flying out today!”

“Max, just clean up the glass, alright? Worry about one thing at a time. I do not need to leave for a few hours.”

And so Max bent down and began the painstaking process of scouring the floor for glass shards, and Ibe stepped over him, familiarly grabbing for the coffee beans and filters before grinding them for the pot. They worked around each other as though practiced—intimate in the knowledge of each other’s movements. It was almost comforting to have Ibe there, another person in the house, filling the void left behind by Jessica and Michael.

Max was lonely.

He recognized this within himself easily, an emotion that was never far. His therapist used to warn him of this—of loneliness in specific. This was what frequently ended up being the impetus to his poor decisions, this was what led to his alcoholic tendencies flaring back to life, and to his suicidal ideation rising to the surface. Ibe helped. He didn’t need to speak, all he needed to do was be near, be another living body within reach.

And he was leaving this afternoon.

“I went for a run this morning,” he called softly over to Ibe, who was filling the urn of the coffee pot. “I woke up…happy.”

He really shouldn’t have admitted to that—the happiness was short-lived, and born of a night of debauchery that he had no intention of sharing with anyone. _You won’t have to share it, you asshole._ He thought. _The video will do it for you._

Flinching, he stood, carefully carrying another handful of broken glass to the trash.

“Keep running,” Ibe was saying, fumbling the pot back into place. “You know it is good for you. You know it helps.”

“Yeah.” Right now, it felt like nothing would ever help again.

The coffee began to sizzle as Max finished the floor, and so they both poured small mugs and sat on opposing ends of the kitchen table.

“So,” Ibe said calmly, holding the mug to his mouth and inhaling deeply as though the very scent of the coffee beans would shock him into wakefulness. “What are you going to do?”

Max sipped at his coffee, wincing at the burn of it on his tongue but desperate for the taste. “I’m going to research,” he replied. “There is something running deeper here—something darker. I need to find out more of who I’m dealing with.”

Laughing, Ibe watched him with eyebrows raised. “He is a teenager. A model. No offense, but it was probably on a dare that he slept with you in the first place.”

“Shut up,” Max laughed, sipping again at his mug. “I’m not that god-awful.”

“You’re a dad, Max. You look like a dad.”

_“Daddy,” Ash whispered, tongue at his lips._

Max shivered. “I’m not that awful,” he repeated.

“Okay, okay. So he didn’t sleep with you on a dare. Still, unless he’s a psychopath hell-bent on destroying your life, he’s probably just in it to blackmail you money or something.”

 _You should stay far, far away from me,_ he’d said. A warning that, for some bizarre reason, Max very much did not want to heed. “He’s rich. He doesn’t need to blackmail me. I’m willing to bet he’s got far more money than I’ll ever see.”

“Oh?”

“He’s the son of some big shot New York businessman. They just ran an entire article on him in Rolling Stone last month!”

“Well excuse me for not being up to date on the most recent of excellent journalistic prose.”

Max grabbed a handful of napkins from where they sat, balled them in his fist, and threw them at Ibe’s head.

“Touchy!” Ibe said with a smirk.

“Fine. You didn’t read it, it doesn’t matter. Point is, he’s a rich kid. He’s got everything he needs.”

“So why you?”

“So why me?”

Ibe wrapped his fingers around the curve of the mug and tapped the pointer one, over and over and over, a dull thunking noise permeating the air. “So research?” He asked, a gleam of boyish curiousity alighting in his eyes.”

“Research,” Max nodded along.

“It will be like the old days. Like you are preparing for a National Geographic spread.”

“If there’s one thing I can do decently, it’s research.” There was a glimmer of hope now, and it spread through him, hot like the coffee at his lips. His mouth twitched into a smile. “What makes a Lynx tick,” Max mused.

“If there is anything there, you will find it.”

“Are you still connected with the NYPD?” Max asked suddenly, the bud of an idea beginning to bloom within his chest.

“As connected as you are, I would imagine. I think Charlie is still there. Antonio left a few years ago. Finally retired.”

“See?” Max grinned. “You already know more than I do!”

Shrugging, Ibe downed the rest of his coffee, then stood and went back to the pot for a second cup. “So try Charlie. He can help with anything New York related. But do your research. Some of those big-city business men are no good.”

Max nodded at this. “Yeah. Yeah, I have a very sour suspicion that this might be one of those.”

For three days, Max lived in his study—sleeping on the pullout sofa whenever he needed, and staring at his computer screen every second he could. Research was one of the parts of his old job that he still missed, still got nostalgic for. There was something romantic about the hunt for a story—the scribbling note taking, the frantic reading, the phone calls to interview anyone close to the situation. He traced Ash back to New York, back to where his career started, and back to his adoptive father Dino Golzine within the first day, reading every article that had been written about the famous Lynx in the past few years.

Then things slowed.

The more he dug up, the more that sour feeling in his gut grew. The man was clean. Too clean. He had a picture-perfect reputation in the city as not only one of the wealthiest business men in the New York, but also the kindest. Golzine gave back to so many charities it made Max’s head spin just trying to read through the list. Golzine hosted benefits all over the world and even donated a huge portion of the profits from his side venture Club Cod—a stunningly expensive restaurant on the waterfront. On paper, there was just nothing there.

His intuition though? Was sounding an alarm loud enough to make him flinch.

There were no articles written about Ash and his family. There were no questions asked of him that related back to Golzine or to New York or to how he grew up. It was as though an entire subsection of his life was excised, cleanly and efficiently. The only mention at all that he found was in an old television interview from two years past. The news anchor had Ash on the phone, and for a while, it was your standard fluff piece—questions about girls, and his favorite food, and what pajamas (if any) he slept in at night. Ash’s voice was younger sounding in the clip—bubbly and boyish with enthusiasm. Max smiled listening to him, then scowled—irritated at the betrayal of his facial features.

And then it happened.

The anchor asked a simple question: “We know you travel to Italy for a couple of weeks every summer with your family! Are you looking forward to that this year?” There was a long, awkward silence, then the question was repeated.

Ash began to laugh.

As that sound traveled through the headphones he was wearing, Max shivered, then clenched his teeth tightly together. This wasn’t Ash’s laughter. It was Chris’s. It was dark and poisonous and evil, and it sounded as though it might never end.

It did. And then Chris spoke clearly—his voice slightly deeper than Ash, and infinitely more in control. “I’m so sorry, but I have another commitment.” And the line went dead.

The anchor laughed, played it off completely as though this were a completely normal occurrence, as though their ‘celebrity’ interviewees frequently cut the call short. Perhaps they did. Perhaps this really wasn’t out of the ordinary at all.

Max listened to it again though, over and over, and every time he was struck by how sudden the change was, how impossibly subtle yet wholly different Ash’s voice was from Chris’s. Italy, it seemed, was a live wire, and one worth exploring further.

On day three of the ‘project’ he called Charlie.

“New York Police Department, Homicide, Detective Dickinson speaking.”

“Charlie!”

“I…I’m sorry? Who is this please?”

Grinning, Max switched the phone to his other ear while he used his right hand to chicken peck at the keyboard, pulling up yet another article on Golzine. “Charlie! It’s Max, Max Glenreed.”

“Max! God, it’s been what? Six years? Shoot, I talk to Ibe more than I talk to you these days! What’s it take to get you to call me during work hours?”

“Yeah, six years about. Sorry about that. Never been good at keeping up. And I’m actually calling about a business man up in your parts. Wondering if you might be able to give me some information?”

“Max,” Charlie groaned. “You already know I can’t just throw info your way. We’ve been over this.”

“I think this one, you might. Haven’t been able to get a lock on him yet, but I’m fairly certain there’s something nefarious going on. Thought you might be able to at least point me in the right direction?”

“God, you’re a pain in the ass. I’m just great, by the way. “

“Would’ve gotten to that eventually,” Max smiled. “How’s Nadia? How are the twins?” He could hear Charlie’s furious typing through the phone line and he almost laughed. The man was a notorious multi-tasker was crazy hard on his keyboards—fingers smashing so hard that he frequently needed to replace the keys.

“Great!” Charlie said, his voice booming in the speaker. “Nadia’s got a third on the way—did Ibe tell you? Putting in hours now so I’ll have time to spend with the baby once he comes. Another boy! Three boys…I don’t know. I just don’t know!”

He laughed and Max could practically see him running a hand through his mop of orange hair. “That’s great, Charlie. Fantastic news. Tell Nads I send my congratulations!”

“Will do. Alright, who am I looking up this time?

“The name’s Golzine. Dino Golzine. Pretty prominent business man—made his fortune in the stock market back in the 80s, now owns a couple of restaurants. Seems to be fairly generous with the funds—looks like he holds some sort of gala or benefit every other month!” Max paused, waiting for a moment to hear that furious typing pick back up but there was only silence on the other end of the line. “Charlie?”

“Jesus Christ, Max. What are you getting into this time?”

“It’s…” _I’m fucking his teenage son and the kid is trying to blackmail me so I’m trying to get ahead of all that and figure out his life story_ didn’t seem to be an appropriate response to the question at hand so Max gritted his teeth. “Uh…err…just a hunch I have?”

“Oh. Right. Care to fill me in?”

“He just looks to clean on paper. He’s got a son. Kid’s a model out here, and I’ve run into him a few times now. Just trying to piece together his back story.”

“Shit, Max.” Charlie sighed—a long, meandering thing. “This guy’s dangerous. Any chance I can convince you to back off?”

“Not a one!” Max replied. That sour knot in his gut was starting to twist tighter, sending delightful pulses of anticipation through his nerves. “Spill.”

“Mafia,” Charlie said. “Golzine is mafia. We can’t do anything about him, haven’t been able to pin a single crime on the man. He’s got too many thug underlings willing to take the fall. Stay away from him. He’s dangerous, Max, people die when they get too close.”

“Fuck.” The curse slipped, unbidden from his lips. “I was expecting bad but…not that.”

“Max, tell me what’s going on. Why do you need to know?”

“I told you,” Max said. “I met his son.”

“That’s not enough of a reason for you to go digging up dirt on Golzine. What’s going on?”

“Thank you so much, Charlie, you’ve been a huge help—”

“Max, don’t you dare hang up on me!”

That is precisely what Max did. And then he very pointedly ignored the phone as it rang back to life three more times. “Nope,” he muttered to himself. “Not gettin’ any more out of me, Charlie.”

_Mafia._

The word was luxurious—full of long and broad vowel sounds so that it expanded as you said it. “Mafia,” he murmured. Then immediately opened a new tab and started typing.

_Mafia in New York_

_Mafia activity New york 1980_

_Mafia members corsican new york_

_Mafia golzine_

There were dozens of articles, all hypotheticals of course, none could point to actual facts. The only arrests made in the crimes were always low-brow. Gang leaders. Gang members. Kids. He read on through the years, through drug trade information and weapons dealing and…

Sex trafficking.

**Over 40 arrested for human trafficking at Premier New York Nightclub ‘Sin’**

**12 Human Trafficking Victims Found in Brooklyn Diner Basement**

**Emilio’s Fine Dining Caught up in Trafficking Scandal**

The headlines went on and on and all were varying types of restaurants or nightclubs or bars. None mentioned Golzine, of course. That would have been much to easy. But Max printed maps of the city and taped them to the wall, then tracked the arrests made, the gang members who were jailed, watched for patterns to emerge and emerge they did.

There was street gang in Brooklyn, that was mentioned frequently—the Blue Fish. They seemed to be centered near the waterfront, within easy access of the subway. Every arrest made led back to them, and so Max began tracing lines from their supposed base up to every establishment raided. In the end, it formed a perfect circle of crime—one that just so happened to enclose Golzine’s current side project: Club Cod.

He wasn’t entirely certain how Golzine would have gotten his name removed from ownership of the now defunct establishments, if he was indeed involved, but there were small indicators he noticed—tiny blips on the radar. A boy named Skip, who’d been questioned by the police in three separate instances who adamantly insisted that he wasn’t a gang member but was visiting from New Jersey. Alpine, New Jersey to be precise.

Which just so happened to be the same city that Golzine lived in.

There was a man named Marvin Greene who’d been brought in under charges of perjury in both the ‘Sin’ arrests and the ‘Emilio’s’ case. He was released on bond, and suspiciously never brought back to court. There was a Marvin Crosby on Golzine’s staff. No pictures of him could be found online, but Max had a nose for coincidence and this didn’t smell like one.

And finally. There were reports of a blond-haired, green-eyed boy in three different instances in relation to the Blue Fish gang. No name was ever given, and he was never brought in for official questioning. Just noted as being seen, watching.

It wasn’t enough for anything more than making Max’s stomach churn with anxiety, but it would have to do.

He slept fitfully that night, dreaming of children screaming, and men dying from bullet wounds that he couldn’t see, and the dusty swirl of the Iraq desert coating his eyes so firmly that he couldn’t blink. He fought himself awake more than once, wrapped in the thin blanket of the futon, mouth open in a silent scream. Mafia, mafia, mafia.

When he finally woke for real, eyes bleary from nightmares and skin wet with sweat, the clock in the study was just ticking its way past 7:30 a.m. “Fuck,” he muttered, pushing the blanket down and rubbing at his eyes. “Fuck!”

There was no way in hell he was pushing through this for a fourth day. He had the information, now he needed to track down the kid. And so, he finally left the stuffiness of the hall study, grabbed his tennis shoes and keys, and left the house for the first time in three days to go for a morning run.

It almost took him by surprise, how bright the sun was, how clear the air was, what a rush it seemed to be to pull in clean oxygen and breathe the city instead of the musty, sweat-soaked smell of his study. He hadn’t brought his phone—had needed a break from the constancy of the internet—and so instead of listening to music, he listened to the sounds of Los Angeles, opening up before him. The simple chugging of an engine as a car passed by, the laugh of two girls playing outside in a yard, the barking of dogs, the squealing of seagulls, and further west, the whisper of the sea.

He only made it five miles total this time, and that was alright. He was free, he was running in the open, and he was solving a mystery and there was just something beautiful about it all. Running did this to him—made him nostalgic—and he allowed it, soaking in the waves of adrenaline and dopamine from the activity.

Once home, he stretched for just a minute on the steps, then let himself inside, ready for a cup of coffee, ready to call Ash again—ten times, or twenty, or fifty—however many it took for him to answer.

As it turned out, it didn’t take any calls. Because Ash was sitting comfortably on his living room couch, legs thrown up on the coffee table, and mouth turning upward in a devilish grin.

“What the fuck!” Max shouted, grabbing at the entrance table with white knuckles and trying to still his pounding heart. “What the fuck. How did you get in here?”

“Garage.”

“What the…what…how?” Max managed to stammer out, sounding a complete idiot.

“The code. 4108.”

Clenching his teeth, Max toed off his sneakers, then padded very purposely into the living room. “And how did you get that code?” He asked, his jaw already starting to hurt from tension.

“It was on your fridge.”

Max whirled, looking into the open kitchen, across the way to the fridge. There were a myriad of things attached by magnets there—photos of Michael, of his baseball team, of Max and Jessica. Wedding announcements and baby announcements and a report card from Michael’s sixth grade year. There was also a small post-it note near the top of the fridge with the number 4108, the number for the pediatrician, and the number of the lady down the street. It was for emergencies for their sitter—should there ever be a problem.

He thought back to four nights ago, when he invited Ash in. When they stood staring at each other for only a moment before Ash pulled him up the stairs into the bedroom. He’d left just as suddenly—the door slamming loud behind him. “When did you…how did you know…”

“I always know my surroundings, Max,” he said, letting the ‘ks’ of sound continue long after the consonant should have died. It sounded like a hiss, like a serpent, tongue coiled and ready to bite.

“Okay…okay.” Max stilled, not moving any further into the living room, just stopped everything to watch Ash.

His breathing was slow and steady—his chest rising ever so slightly with each intake. He was back to wearing those skin tight black jeans, but this time he had a flannel pulled over the t-shirt. It was rolled up at his elbows and Max couldn’t help but linger on the line that his forearm cut, resting against the couch. His hair fell loose at his neck, small pieces of it brushing his brow, and his eyes were that dark green—not the bright of conversation, but the liquid murkiness of sex incarnate.

“You have something of mine.” He chose his words carefully, trying not to interrupt the sudden thickening stillness of the room.

“Oh? Do I?” Ash reached down to flick something from his pants—dust, or lint, or a speck of nothing. Even in this action he was fluid and graceful. His nails were painted black again—a fresh coat this time, no longer jagged at the tips.

“Ash.”

“Or is it Chris?” Ash asked, tongue poking out just slightly to lick at his swollen lips.

“I don’t fucking care who it is, I want that video gone.”

“Unfortunate.” Sighing, Ash stood from the couch and walked to Max.

He put a hand out, ready to wrap his arm around Max’s neck and pull him close, but Max swatted him away, smacking his forearm down as though he were no more than a child.

“Max,” Ash murmured. “I’m hurt.”

“Get. Rid. Of. It.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my insurance. It’s not going anywhere, Mr. Glenreed. But I promise not to circulate it any further than you.”

At this, he tried again, stroking his hand down Max’s shoulder and swiping a finger through the lingering sweat on his bare chest. Then he brought the finger to his lips and licked. “As long as you’ll still have me?”

Max was already half-hard in his shorts and there was nothing he could do to disguise it, nothing he could do but fucking hate his body’s ridiculous reaction to this…kid, this teenager, this…son of a mafioso. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Yeah. Fuck, yes, okay. Whatever. Just don’t send the video.”

Ash pressed closer, rising on his toes again and licking the shell of Max’s ear. “I promise.”

“Fuck, kid. I don’t…I don’t know what this is. What are you doing? Why do you want…well…” _Me?_ It sounded ridiculously pathetic so he kept _that_ little portion to himself.

“You?” Ash filled in for him. He snagged the waistband of Max’s shorts, pulling him towards the couch and pushing him back against the lip of the seat. “You’re my type,” he said, pushing with only a finger and smiling as Max sank down into the cushion.

“Old?” Max asked, looking up at him now. “Married?”

“But you aren’t anymore. You’re free. You’re big and strong and—”

“Ash. Don’t fuck with me. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear.”

Ash blinked. Cocking his head for a second, he looked down at Max and considered. “Okay,” he said slowly, languidly. “Okay, I’ll play.” He moved forward then, straddling Max’s knees and sitting on his lap. “I like your smile,” he said, wrapping an arm around Max’s neck and curling his fingers into his hair. “I like your laugh. I like the way you ordered me around on set.” He rocked forward suddenly to punctuate this, and licked his lips.

God, Max wanted to kiss him.

“I like your arms,” he whispered, trailing fingers down the muscle of Max’s shoulder—tracing the outline of every dip and every curve of skin. “I like your chest.” He leaned forward and kissed along Max’s collarbone, gentle and soft. “I like your cock.”

He rutted forward again, and Max couldn’t help the groan that slipped from his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“Tell me what you want.” He spoke against Max’s chest, lips hot and wet.

“Fuck,” Max said again. Ash’s fingers tangled even tighter in his hair, pulling head back and exposing his throat.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, licking up the side of Max’s neck.

“Call me…” Max said, and then shuddered as Ash reached his ear, licking and kissing. “Call me…daddy…” He couldn’t believe he was saying it. He couldn’t believe how much he wanted it, how much he didn’t care about anything else—the affair, the video, the mafia. He wanted Ash.

He wanted Ash, he wanted Ash, he wanted—

“Daddy,” Ash crooned, lifing his head and grinning. He rocked his hips again at the fall of the word. “Daddy,” he said, rocking forward, watching Max, not looking away. “Daddy,” he jerked. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

Max couldn’t control himself, he bucked into Ash, desperate for that friction. His cock was wet against his shorts, he could feel it, and he groaned as Ash kept grinding, kept–

Ash rolled off of him easily, standing once more. “Sorry, Daddy,” he called down, suddenly playful. “I have a meeting I need to get to.”

“Fuck!” Max shouted, throwing his head against the back of the couch and trying to ignore the desperation in his voice. “Fuck, Ash, what the fuck?” He sat up slowly, gritting his teeth. Ash was hard also, outline of his cock clearly visible, pressing at the tight denim he wore. “Fuck,” Max said again, standing and trying to ignore the heaviness of his erection between his legs. “Where?”

“I’ll be back soon,” Ash said—back to business. No longer that dripping honey, but just a casual conversation. “I’ll be ready for you.”

“Fine,” Max growled, pushing past him and walking into the kitchen. He filled a large glass of water at the sink, then took his time gulping it down. “Guess you know the password to get in. Come by whenever you please.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm in his voice, the irritation.

“Don’t be upset,” Ash murmured, suddenly behind him. He wrapped his arms around Max, then let his right hand stray downward, just brushing at his athletic shorts. “I’d rather stay.”

“Then stay.”

“Can’t.” Letting go, Ash walked to the entry way, pausing only to fiddle with the picture frame on the side table—Max, Jessica, and baby Michael, still in the hospital room, all smiles. “My father is in town. I need to meet him for lunch.”

There was a bitterness that had crept into his voice, hard and brittle, and Max watched him carefully. The way his nose wrinkled, the way his graceful fingers went hard for just a moment, as though full of anxiety.

Then he relaxed, turning back to Max for only a moment. “It’s just lunch. Can I come back later?”

The way he asked was so devoid of any forwardness, any ego, any charm. He sounded almost nervous, almost afraid of what the answer might be.

And Max couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t get enough of those green eyes, of that dirty mouth of his, of those long graceful limbs. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, come back anytime.”

Ash opened the front door and was one foot out when Max called after him. “Where are you having lunch?”

“The Earle,” Ash called. “My Uber is here. I’ll see you tonight.” Then the door closed quietly behind him.

The Earle, Max thought.

And suddenly, irresistibly, the kernel of a very bad idea began to sprout within him. 

The Earle was one of the ritziest establishments Max had ever seen in his life, and he’d been wined and dined at some of the finest during his days as a famous photo-journalist. The maitre-d led him down concrete steps to a hallway that had been encased in wine corks. It felt secretive almost, the walk to the actual restaurant. It was dark, the only lighting came from wall sconces that were set into the walls almost so high that they touched the ceiling. This caused the light to pool and get stuck there, flickering against the wooden beams of the ceiling but hardly going any further.

The smell of food was strong here—rich meats and vegetables, and Max’s mouth was already watering, despite the nagging feeling deep in his gut that:

 **A.** Following Ash here to see what his mafia-father looked like was inherently a truly poor decision

And,

 **B.** There was absolutely no good reason that he should be spending the amount of money it would cost to dine here for no other reason but idle curiosity.

He was already committed though, so he obediently followed to the t-shaped entryway. “Umm, if it isn’t too much trouble,” he said, eyes on the telltale blond hair of his prey, “would you mind seating me over there? Just by the fireplace?”

“Of course, sir,” the maitre d answered.

It was polite, but oily in a way that was most certainly judgmental. Max tugged at his suit coat self-consciously, then followed to where the man was already holding out his chair.

Ash didn’t notice as he sunk down in it—in fact, he didn’t seem to be noticing much of anything at all. They had already been served, and Ash seemed to be intently studying his plate, rather than eating, rather than doing much of anything.

But Golzine.

Golzine had an aura about him that made the very air in the room seem to wither, strangled of oxygen. He sat tall, and proud, a cloth tied round his neck and tucked in smartly to a perfectly fit suit coat and dress shirt. He was eating already—slicing through a steak that was rare enough to still bleed upon the plate, and even in the simple act of chewing, he commanded the room.

Max couldn’t look away. He’d been in war zones before, he’d documented children killing each other and men killing each other and people dying on the streets in front of him. He’d seen warlords in action and corrupt politicians. And still, this man? This _Dino Golzine,_ was more terrifying than any of them.

“Sit up,” Golzine said, dabbing at his mouth with a dark crimson napkin.

Max watched as Ash snapped to attention, hands folded delicately in his lap. “Yes, Papa,” he murmured.

“I’m told you’ve missed your last two sessions,” Golzine continued.

He didn’t even watch Ash as he spoke, just focused intently on the carnage of his plate. Even so, Ash was tense—taut like a bow and ready to snap at any moment. Max had never seen this side of him—he’d never seen him look so young, so afraid, so obeisant.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Ash answered.

Max could see the way his hands tangled in his lap, knuckles white with agitation. His hair had fallen across his brow, hiding his eyes, and Max had a sudden, irresistible urge to push it back into place and—

“Sir? Have you decided?”

Turning to the waiter with a rather forced smile, Max ordered a salad, then almost burst out laughing at the way the waiters face turned sour.

“Is that all, sir?”

“That will be all!” Max handed over the numerous menus and wine lists, then, because he just couldn’t help himself, he hoisted an elbow up to the table, leaned his head into his hand, then flicked at the waiter with his other—his fingers loose. “Ta ta!”

The waiter frowned at him, then turned, walking back to the kitchens.

Unfortunately, his future career as a mole for the secret service was in absolute jeopardy as his little display seemed to have caught the attention of his quarry. Ash had turned, and was looking at him with his mouth open, eyes full of panic. He bit his lip hard, then turned back to Golzine, but Max could see the way his breathing had changed—he watched as his chest rose and fell again much quicker.

“Shit,” Max murmured, reaching for his water and taking a long drink. He very pointedly did not look over at the table, as Golzine began to speak again.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Ash said. His voice was quieter now, and there was a slight hitch in his breathing.

Max wasn’t sure if it was because of the question, or because he’d just seen Max very pointedly spying on him.

“You’re sorry?” Golzine didn’t raise his voice, but the heaviness on his syllables belied anger, rage even. “Did you think that I somehow wouldn’t find out about this?”

“No, no, it’s not that. I just…”

Ash’s gaze flickered back over to Max and Max ducked his head, wishing more than anything that his irritated waiter would bring his salad.

“Umm, I just was booked—”

“You were not booked. Please don’t think I’m stupid, Ash. Try again.”

“I…forgot…” Ash whispered, the sound from his lips barely reaching Max’s ears.

Golzine didn’t even reply to this, but Max could practically feel the scathing burn of his gaze at his table.

“I’m so sorry, Papa. I won’t do it again.”

And the tension burst, just like that. Golzine picked up his fork again, began slipping rare bits of meat to his tongue.“No,” he said, pausing for a sip of his wine. “You will not. I’ve already made amends. Apologized for you. You have an appointment tomorrow at 3 p.m. I have not spend this much time on him for you to put everything in jeopardy because of a little...hmmm. _Overenthusiasm_. You will not be late. ”

“Of course not, Papa. I’m sorry.”

“You already said that. Eat.”

Max couldn’t miss the way Ash jumped to obey the order, to pick up the fork and begin, taking the smallest bites imaginable. Mostly he just pushed food around the plate, pretending to eat, but Golzine seemed satisfied and they lapsed into silence.

And not five minutes later, the waiter brought his salad, and Max was able to distract himself ever so slightly from the awful rigidity of the conversation next to him.

They didn’t talk about much else. Golzine questioned Ash on his work, on his traveling, on when he might be back in New York. Ash answered respectfully, but the tension never seemed to leave his body—he was coiled tight, ready to burst at any moment.

They finished before Max paying the bill and standing to leave together. Max watched as Golzine draped an arm around Ash’s shoulders, bring him in close as a father might do to his son. Despite the universal commonness of this gesture though, there was nothing familial about it. It reeked of control, and manipulation, and as they left the restaurant, the sick feeling in Max’s gut grew.

It didn’t take him long to reach home. Traffic was unusually light, and he burst through the city only hitting minimal red lights. He parked in the garage, and entered through the kitchen, somehow unsurprised to see Ash already there waiting for him.

“What the fuck!” Ash flew at him, shoving him so hard that Max almost tripped. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you playing at? Are you working for him? Oh my god, are you one of his?”

“Ash!” Max yelled, trying to get a word in edgewise, but Ash was too worked up, too panicked to listen.

“Fuck you!”

It happened as though in slow motion. Max watched Ash draw back, watched his fingers close into a tight, white-knuckled fist, and then watched as that fist came straight for him.

He didn’t even duck. He didn’t try to move, or pull away, or anything, and so his face exploded in pain with the punch and he fell against the wall.

“Fuck you!” Ash cried, following him and pinning him there. “How long? How long have you been—”

“Ash!” Max yelped. His nose was bleeding—it was dripping all over his shirt, all over the floor. “Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing it between two fingers and pinching while trying to fend off Ash who was attempting to kick at his shins. “Jesus Christ, ASH!”

Ash froze at the bellow of sound, though his fist remained clenched tight. “Fuck you,” he said quietly.

Standing slowly, Max drew up again and made his way over to the sink to soak a towel. “Jesus, kid. I followed you because I’m trying to figure you out. You’re fucking blackmailing me with a sex video, and you’re nineteen and one moment you’re in control, you’re ordering me around, and the next you completely shut down and I can’t get through to you, you just give up. I spent the last few days researching your family. I know your dad has mafia connections. And from what I can tell, he’s a nightmare. I just wanted to see him in person.”

“You fucking idiot,” Ash said, slowly relaxing his fist, and then bringing his hands up, rubbing at his temples. “Oh my god, you fucking idiot.”

Max held the wet towel to his nose, breathing deeply through his mouth. It hurt like hell, but didn’t feel broken so at least there was that. “Hey. I’ve worked reconnaissance for the military before. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh for fucks sake, you absolutely do not know a god damn thing,” Ash growled. His nose was wrinkled in consternation and he looked as though he might fall over. Instead, he sank down to the floor, then lay there, completely stretched out and prone. He covered his eyes with his hands, and heaved a deep breath that sounded almost as if it could have been a sob. “Max, don’t fuck with my dad. Alright? Just don’t fuck with him.”

Max walked over and squatted near Ash’s head. Reaching forward, he touched Ash’s wrist, and pulled it to himself, threading his fingers through Ash’s. “Whatever your involved in? I can help. Okay I can help.”

“Nope,” Ash said. He raised his free hand, tangling it in the long wisps of blond hair that had spread around his head. “No you can’t. And that’s fine, that’s alright—okay? You can’t help, this situation is way above your pay-grade. I swear to you, if my father catches whiff at all of you snooping around—be it for me, be it for idle curiosity—he will have you murdered. You’re fucking lucky as hell he didn’t notice you gaping at us like a fucking idiot at the restaurant today.”

“Okay.” Max stayed quiet, thinking through it all for a moment. The hall clock was ticking away seconds, loud against the empty silence of the room. “Can you at least tell me if you’re safe?”

At this, Ash finally looked at him. He slowly sat up, drawing his knees up to his chest and curling an arm around them. “Why?” he asked.

That word. That horrible, tiny little word. It tugged at Max’s gut as though trying to rip him apart, full of heat and desperation and longing. Ash sounded so tired, and so scared, and so, so hopeless. “Because I…” he said, suddenly very unsure of what was appropriate or not, of what the larger story running through Ash’s life really contained. “Because I care about you. Because you look awful. Because yes, I listened in on your conversation and I don’t care how benign the topics were, Dino Golzine radiates _very, bad man_.”

Ash chuckled, then came to his knees, scootching over to Max. He snaked a hand around Max’s neck, pulling him in and kissing him deeply.

And Max pushed him away. “Don’t.”

Scowling up at him, Ash backed away again, grabbing his hand back from Max’s grasp. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Ash.” Max reached out again, but Ash just shook his head. “Look, I just don’t want you thinking that there are terms to this. Ever. If you need a place to crash, you’re welcome here—no strings.” His heart ached at the suspicious look that Ash still had and he very much wanted a drink, and quite honestly? Yes, he wanted to kiss Ash, and taste Ash, and forget about everything in the entire universe but the softness of Ash’s skin against his fingertips, but none of this was appropriate for this current moment of crisis and so he schooled his face to stagnancy. “Do you want to stay here?”

It took him a while. He seemed to be fighting with something internally, and Max wasn’t sure if he very much did not want to stay, or if he really, truly did but had no idea how to accept the offer. Finally, he nodded—a movement so small that Max almost thought he’d imagined it—and then stood up and brushed passed without so much as a word, making his way to the sink where he leaned to wash the blood from his knuckles. “I can’t cook,” he called over his shoulder. “So don’t expect me to thank you that way.”

Max actually laughed at that—a big, loud, huff of a thing that exploded from him. “I can cook just fine,” he called.

Ash shot him a look of incredulity. “Last few times I’ve seen you, looks like the only thing you know how to ‘cook’ is a bottle of gin.

“Ahh…” He really had nothing to say for it. His…way of living for the past few weeks wasn’t exactly one that bespoke a knowledge for self-sustainability. “I’ll try harder,” he said, finally drawing back up and groaning at the way his knees protested.

“Hey, old man,” Ash said playfully. “You gonna make it?”

“Fuck off.”

Ash was warming again—the icy cold of his post-lunch exterior seemed to be sloughing off. “So dinner?” he asked, drying his hands at the sink.

“Dinner? You just had lunch an hour ago!”

“Clearly your talent for surveillance is shit. I barely ate anything.”

Right. “Okay. Okay, sure. I’ll make us dinner. You go to the hall closet and find bedding, towels, whatever you need. There’s a guest room on the second level of the house—right next to the bathroom upstairs. Go make yourself comfortable. Ash flushed, and Max wondered what he’d said wrong this time.

“I…” he started. “Can I take a shower?”

“Knock yourself out.” Max waved him off and bent down to begin pulling out pots and pans. He had soup on the stove and was just settling into his office chair to begin edits on the most recent photoshoot when Ash popped in, skin still pink from the hot water. He was back in his jeans again, clinging and tight around his legs, showing every single line of his body, but he had on an oversized t-shirt that hung loose on him, grey and baggy and worn thin from years of use.

One of Max’s.

He almost couldn’t ignore the fluttering in his stomach at seeing Ash so deliberately claim something of his. “Nice shirt,” he muttered, refusing to take his eyes from the computer again.

“Comfortable,” Ash said, stepping into the office. He turned to the books there, studying the titles and moving from shelf to shelf.

“I’ll have dinner ready soon.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t turn to acknowledge Max. Instead, his fingers landed on a particular spine and he pulled it out, looking at it ravenously. Then he settled himself in the armchair diagonally across from Max’s desk. He threw one leg casually over the arm of the chair, and the other stayed pulled to his chest. Then he opened the book and began to read—silent, eyes tracking words quickly and steadily.

Max couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was a stray beam of light from the sun that had burst through the slats of the window and it cast Ash’s sneaker in bright, sparkling sunlight. Max could see the dust in that light, floating irreverently like snow above the book he held. He wished for his camera, but he wasn’t certain that he could possibly capture the mood of the scene before him. It was perfect, it was—

“Stop staring at me.”

Ash hadn’t even so much as looked up from the book, but Max still ripped his gaze away and back to the computer. “Dinner will be done in about thirty minutes,” he offered, clicking through a variety of shots from his memory card.

Ash didn’t answer, just turned the page and kept reading.

The silence no longer hurt. It no longer weighed heavy around his shoulders, it no longer pressed against him, screaming in his ears.

Now it was warm. Now it was filled with two bodies worth of breath, worth of sighs, worth of idle sound.

And Max began to smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an Ash perspective chapter!!!

_June 26, 2019_

_Someday Dino is going to find this, and I’m going to laugh, and he’s going to kill me, and probably I’ll just keep laughing, laughing laughing._

_Dissociative Identity Disorder. Two personalities. Maybe more, but probably just two. I’m not sure if he’s told Dino yet, or if he’s just fucking with me about the whole thing. All I know is that right now, I hate Ash._

_I hate him._

_I hate him._

_I hate him._

_I hate him._

_I hate him._

It was the sound of quiet that woke Ash—that emptiness, space just waiting to be filled. It wasn’t the honking of cars, or sirens, or loud conversations. Ash enjoyed living downtown. He loved the rush of it, the pace, the people, the way his key turned in the lock at the door just next to the coffee shop and then the way he had to ascend a steep flight of stairs to reach the second door—the one to his apartment. There was just something about being young and being beautiful and living amongst the chaos.

Unfortunately, his address was known by his agent, and by his friends, and by, most notably, his father, and at the present moment, being ‘off-the-grid’ suited him.

He kicked the comforter from his body and sat up, running a hair through the tangles of his hair. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he looked over at the small digital clock that sat by the bed. 6:02 a.m.

The house was completely silent, and Ash grimaced. If he was lucky, Max had already left on one of his ridiculous morning jogs and Ash would be able to sneak down to the kitchen, make coffee completely unnoticed, and then go curl back up in the comfort of his bed with a book.

If he was unlucky, Max would be running late, and would then force him into sneakers and out on a humid, hot, and miserable 5 mile run about the suburbs.

Which was 100% not what he wanted to be doing with his time.

The need for coffee won out over the need for secrecy in the end, and so Ash padded down the stairs quietly in bare feet and nothing but his briefs. The living room was empty, the front hall was empty, and as he turned into the kitchen, already thrilled with his success for the morning, his luck ended.

“Get your shoes, lover-boy.”

Max was grinning at him from the table where he was drinking a large glass of water. He had his laptop open, and Ash could see some NPR news headline about falling oil prices pulled up. His tennis shoes were already laced, and he wore a pair of red athletic shorts—the kind that swished ever so softly as he walked.

“God damn it, Max, were you just waiting for me?” Ash complained. He affected a rather ridiculous pout that had been known to work in lesser situations but Max just grinned up at him.

“Come on! Gorgeous day. It’s good for you and your ‘model’ body. Someday you’re not gonna magically look like…well…that.”

Max eyed him for only a moment, before looking back to his computer screen. Being ignored was not something Ash was used to, but he bit at his lower lip, considering his options. “I’ll get my shoes,” Ash said, walking up to Max and kneeling at his feet. “But you’ll owe me.” He dropped a hand against Max’s knee, pushing up to his thigh and slipping under the fabric.

Max grabbed his hand and looked down at him. “No,” he said. “I don’t owe you. You don’t owe me. Got it?”

Gritting his teeth, Ash nodded, irritated. This whole situation was rapidly spiraling out of control and loss of control was a key trigger in Ash’s fucked up psyche. Still, for all intents and purposes he’d been living here for a week and a half, and he hadn’t had a single episode. That was a particularly freeing experience considering that for a while it had been a daily occurrence, but it was also absolutely terrifying to him because there was no longer a schedule to count on, he had no idea when he was going to slip, when he was going to be swallowed by the horrible depression that made it almost impossible to move, or even worse…Chris.

“So, shorts?” Max asked, grinning stupidly down at him.

And there it was. That stupid grin. That flash of his eyes, that friendliness and trust and…something more that Ash refused to name. He couldn’t escape the warmth he felt with it, the buzz of adrenaline or even the tingling of happiness. “Give me five,” Ash said, turning back around with a very heavy sigh and placing his hands on his head as he walked back out of the kitchen.

With any luck, Max would watch his ass the entire way to the stairs.

Max had been contracted as a second shooter for a few weddings over the weekends so he kept through the week, spending hours upon hours editing images.

Ash, for his part, wasn’t working. He relied entirely on the gigs that his agent booked him, and all of those went through Golzine.

It wasn’t so much that Ash loved to work, as he loved being busy. If he were being completely honest with himself, modeling was a career he absolutely despised. Listening to people call him beautiful, and pretty, and gorgeous day after day was grating in its intensity and the flash of cameras in his face was…well…

He squinted his eyes closed, and shook his head, raising hands to his ears to block sound, to block movement, to block thought.

It was coming : the panic, the blackness, the suicidal despair.

He could feel it eating at him, just waiting for him to lose control and let it free.

He was certain that Golzine was behind this sudden emptiness in his work schedule. Golzine had told him in their last meaning that he’d be back within two weeks. It had been two weeks and Ash hadn’t called him, hadn’t seen him, hadn’t so much as walked by his apartment. Ash was hiding, and Golzine could smell a cornered rat a mile away, so yes. The lack of work was most definitely a punishment from his adoptive father.

It wasn’t until three weeks in that Golzine finally lost patience with Ash’s willfulness.

He and Max had just finished dinner, and Ash had gone upstairs to wash up and change, planning to go out. It was Friday, and Friday was club day, and he was going to at least show up and put in an appearance before the rest of his gossiping acquaintances began spreading rumors.

The buzz of the burner phone Ash had hidden in the little side table of the guest bedroom wasn’t unexpected, yet it still made him freeze—made the blood in his veins suddenly sluggish and thick as it pumped. “Shit,” he said quietly. Downstairs, he could still hear Max at the sink, washing dishes and humming some poor piece of music that truly did not deserve to be slaughtered with the toneless interpretation that was being delivered.

_Come out and play my little lynx._

He picked up the phone and dialed Shorter.

“Ash! It’s been weeks. man!”

“Yeah, sorry,” Ash said quietly, keeping one ear on that discordant humming and eyes on the door. “Umm—”

“You still shacking up with the old man?”

“Yeah. Can I borrow your bike?”

“What do you see in him? He’s gotta be a fucking good lay…”

“Bike, Shorter. Jesus, focus. Can I borrow your bike?” Ash’s heart was thumping against his chest and it was hard to breathe, hard to think. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to drag Max into this mess but…fuck. He’d already blackmailed the guy. _You worthless piece of shit_ , he thought. _Fuck._

“Seriously, man, what do you see in him?”

“Safe,” Ash whispered. There was almost no tone to the word, it just fell from his lips.

“What?”

More toneless lyrics from Max traveled up the hallway, and Ash breathed in, letting them wash over him. “Safe,” he repeated. “He’s safe. I don’t know, fuck off Shorter. Can I have the keys?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. You know where to find me.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there soon.” He threw the phone to the bed and then opened the burner, dialing the number attached to the text message.

It only took two rings before Golzine picked up.

“Hello, Ash,” he purred into the phone.

It sent a shiver of disgust down Ash’s spine and he steeled himself, careful not to let any emotion creep into his words. “Hello, Papa.”

“Dinner will be at seven. I’ll send a car.”

“No,” Ash interrupted. Umm, I’m sorry. I just mean…I was down at the beach with some friends. I’ll catch a ride.”

“Hmm.”

Golzine sounded utterly unconvinced and Ash squinted his eyes closed, swallowing thickly. “I don’t want to put you out, Papa. I’m already downtown.” He tried for sultry, or sexual, or just plain confident, hoping to sway Golzine. There was no scenario in his head where copping to living with Max ended well.

“Fine.”

Ash exhaled in relief.

“Mastro’s. Be there by seven, Ash.”

“Of course, Papa.” But the line was already dead. Ash carefully snuck the burner back into the dresser drawer, then looked at the time. 5:46 p.m. blinked the clock on the table.

It was bound to take him at least an hour worth of travel to get to Shorter, grab the bike, then get down to the waterfront where Mastro’s was. As he’d already lied about his whereabouts to Golzine, and had given a location unfortunately close to the restaurant, there was absolutely no way in hell he could be late. There wasn’t time for a shower, only a quick visit to the bathroom to slick back his hair in the way that Papa liked. Then he headed back to his closet where he threw on a pair of skinny black dress pants and a blue cashmere sweater—a gift. From Golzine.

Hee took the stairs two at a time, running for the front entrance.

“Hey!” Max called from the sink. “Whats up?”

“Sorry, just gotta go out for a bit. I’ll be back late. I…” he drifted off, unsure and cautious. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. _I’m sorry that my dad’s the head of the Corsican mob and that I have direct ties to them and that it’s violent, and it’s horrible, and it’s unsafe, and I’m sorry I’m dragging you into this…_

Instead, he closed his eyes a moment. Actually wished for Chris.

Because Chris could handle this. Chris was good at talking, and at manipulating the situation, and at control, control, control and Ash was stupid and nothing and—

“Shit,” he murmured, dropping a hand down and pinching his thigh as hard as he could. The pain, though small and insignificant, focused him on the task at hand—on getting out the damn door. He cleared his throat. “I’ll be late. Later.”

And then he left, listening to the solid thud of the door behind him.

He grabbed a taxi as soon as he got to a main road—took it to Shorter’s apartment and let himself in just long enough to grab the keys at the front door and holler a brief ‘thanks!’. Then grabbed the black helmet from where it hung in the garage, swung a leg over, and started the bike.

He could have taken a cab all the way to Mastro’s. He could have called an Uber from Max’s and given himself enough time for a shower, even. But when it came down to meetings with Golzine, he liked to have an escape route that was wholly his. Relying on others meant potential waiting time, and waiting time meant longer with Golzine and longer with Golzine was—

Shaking his head, he merged into traffic and worked out his anxiety and rage by driving 90 down the expressway—looping in and out of cars like a fucking idiot.

He made it on time, handing the keys to the valet just as Golzine’s limo pulled up. Ash waited for him to be let out, running a hand through his now damp hair and grimacing at the damage the helmet had done.

“Ash.”

That was all there was. Not a question. Not a statement. Just his name, cold, and hard, and brutal. Ash fought the urge to bend on one knee right there.

_Where are you,_ he thought miserably. _Chris, please, where are you._ Golzine was staring at him, eyes narrowing with every passing second. “Papa,” Ash managed, bowing his head incrementally.

“Hmm,” Golzine said, pushing past him and the doorman, and stepping into the cool air conditioning of the restaurant.

They were both silent as they were seated. The staff knew Golzine already—this was a favorite establishment of his when he had business on the east coast.

Their server showed up with a bottle of red wine; something that was most likely horribly expensive, and rare. He offered it to Golzine first, who swished his glass, took a sip, and then gave an almost imperceptible nod, all the while watching Ash.

Ash emptied his pockets, putting his phone on the table where Golzine could watch it, could see if anyone called.

The man poured two glasses. No one ever carded Ash when he was with Golzine. No one ever cared. And so he took a gentle sip, mirroring his father, and wishing for all the world that he had a bottle of whiskey and…

Max.

He closed his eyes. Max had no purpose here. Max was a figment, a desire, a cusp of something unreachable.

“You’ve gained weight.”

Ash put the glass of wine down and picked up his menu, trying to hide the burn of his cheeks.

“Ash. That is unacceptable.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to grind out the apology, his jaw was already so hard with tension that it was becoming impossible to speak.

“No one will want you if you don’t keep your figure.” He drank again—deeply this time, the thick tannins of the wine gripping to his glass. “Where have you been hiding?”

This change of direction, this sudden rerouting of the conversation was a favorite tactic of Golzine, but Ash knew him well. “Been with a friend,” he said casually, finger tapping patterns against his knee. His anxiety was growing worse, he wanted nothing more than to chew a nail or let his leg shake a constant pattern of up and down, up and down, but he couldn’t give any of that away.

“The friend with the bike you borrowed.”

Not a question. A statement. Ash had long suspected that Golzine knew of Shorter Wong, knew of his relationship with him and his sister, knew that they were close to the Lee’s who were in power here—who the Corsican mafia did not want sniffing around. Still, to hear it so suddenly thrown in casual conversation, was terrifying. Ash straightened up and moved his hands to his lap, gripping fingers tightly together. “I—”

“Don’t be coy with me, Ash.”

“Yes,” Ash admitted, refusing to look away from Golzine’s hard stare. “Yes. He’s a friend.”

“Fine.”

The waiter came by then, and Ash breathed a sigh of relief. Golzine ordered for both of them—only a small side salad for Ash—and this was fine. There was no way he could eat a full meal in front of the man, his nerves were too tight, and there were too many moments that could go wrong. He was perfectly content to pick at his bed of lettuce and ignore the way the blood dripped from Golzine’s raw steak, ignore the way the tension was building.

“You are to see Foxx tomorrow.”

There it was. The quiet explosion he’d been waiting for. The dam giving way. He had no choice in the matter—Golzine and Foxx had gone back decades, and Foxx was a relationship that Golzine nurtured and catered to, because when the time came for it, he needed to be absolutely loyal.

Ash ducked his head. “What time?” he asked. He set his fork down and tried to ignore the way his hands were starting to shake.

“He’s not happy that you missed your last two appointments.”

They’d covered this last time, but there was no way in hell that Ash would ever voice that. “I’m sorry,” he said, rehashing his apology again.

“He’s been back for a week. He will see you tomorrow at 3 p.m. Do not be late. I’ve told him you were sick for the last few weeks. You best act the part.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Have you been taking your medication?”

No. No he had not. He’d flushed it down the toilet the second he was able. They controlled enough of him already, they would not get that. “Yes,” he answered mechanically.

“Ash.”

The wine was finished. Somehow, Golzine had drank the entire bottle minus the small pour that the waiter had given Ash, and his face was flushed with it, heated and angry.

“I just don’t think—”

“He’s your psychiatrist. You take what he prescribes you.”

“I am.” His voice shook though, and Ash wanted to bolt. Foxx was _not_ his psychiatrist. Foxx was a job. A long haul job, a job he hated with every fiber of his being. But Foxx also just so happened to be a leading psychiatrist in the area and so Dino just loved using that as their ‘in’, their cover. He loved holding it over Ash and forcing that final modicum of control over his body.

Dino frowned at him, his eyes narrowing.

It was as though he could see straight through him. As though he had already pulled at every thread of a lie and untangled in only seconds. Ash wanted to run, this was going wrong so fast on every level and he wasn’t going to be able to maintain the lies, the carefully constructed facade, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—

“You’ve been given too much freedom here.”

“No, I—”

“I can bring you back. I can have you back to the manse, you can stay there with me. You can be my dog. You’ll have no freedoms, no friends, nothing.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Prove it to me then. Finish the job with Foxx, act your part, and do not mess it up.”

He was a mile away from the restaurant before he realized his surroundings, before he was Ash again.

“Oh fuck.” There was a horrible taste in his mouth, and he leaned over and spit, trying to ignore the tightness of his gut, the nausea that was roiling inside. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, it’s fine.”

It was dark out. It was dark, and there were people everywhere, and he didn’t know where he was, and—

He turned down the first alley he saw, then held out his hands looking for traces of blood, or worse. He didn’t know if it had been minutes since he left the restaurant, or if it had been hours–hours that he’d spend with Dino and couldn’t remember.

Thankfully, there was nothing. Even so, he spit in his palms, then rubbed at his face and neck, just in case.

Just in case.

He needed to walk back. He needed to get the bike from the valet, put on his helmet, and ride back to Max.

No.

He needed to make sure Golzine was gone.

No.

He needed—

A couple passed him, drunk and falling all over each other. The man pushed the woman against the wall right across from Ash and kissed her, long and deep enough that she started to moan.

He shook his head. Reached a hand into his pocket, but there was nothing there. _Phone on the table_ , he remembered. “Fuck,” he said, trying to ignore the panic that was fluttering in his chest, ready to escape. “Umm, I’m sorry,” he called to the man. “Do you have the time?”

The guy drunkenly swerved over to him, leaving his date against the wall. He pulled out a phone and looked. “Ten fifteen, man.”

“Thank you,” Ash said, quietly. It had been 7:40 the last time he’d looked at his phone.

He’d lost almost three hours.

He grabbed at his head, fingers tight against his temples and he tried not to scream. _It’s going to be fine. It’s alright. You need to get back to the restaurant. You need to ask them if they found your phone. Then you need to pay the valet and get the bike and get the hell out of here._

It was a sequence of steps, and as long as he followed them one at a time, he was going to be just fine.

The restaurant had his phone. The maitre d gave him a strange look before he bent down, looking amongst the shelves of the console, but he handed the phone over and that was one thing crossed off the list.

He still had his wallet. Another good thing. He was able to track down the valet, despite the fact that the restaurant had closed thirty minutes prior, and get Shorter’s bike. Two things down.

Then he needed to drive back to Max.

This seemed a horrible idea at the moment, but there was no way he could go home, not when he knew Golzine was out there, not when he knew what might be waiting for him…there.

Three hours.

Three hours.

Three hours.

“Oh fuck,” Ash murmured, settling the helmet on his head and kicking the bike into gear. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t–

_“You are to see Foxx tomorrow.”_

Ash screamed. It echoed in his helmet for just a second, loud and painful, and full of nightmares, and then it escaped, fading out into the noise of the expressway.

The house was dark, once he finally made it back home. There was a spare key underneath the license plate of Max’s car, and he grabbed it, letting himself in the front door quietly. He’d hoped that Max would already be asleep, but the steady glow of the office light was still on, still reflected down the long hallway.

Ash shut the door quietly behind him, and took the staircase, toes barely touching the wood, trying to be a ghost, trying to be nothing at all.

It didn’t work.

He was in the middle of brushing his teeth when Max showed up, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. Ash watched him in the mirror’s reflection. He looked tired, but content and Ash met his eyes for just a second, before looking down again at the porcelain bowl of the sink.

“You alright?” Max asked, as soon as Ash had finished spitting, as soon as the water turned off.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s past eleven.”

“What are you, my Dad? I told you I’d be home late. I went out to the bar with friends.”

“You aren’t drunk.”

Ash whirled on him. “How the fuck would you know?”

“I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you high. You aren’t either of those things.”

Max sounded so calm, so sure of himself, and Ash was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to shove him, to hit him, to scream.

He didn’t. He swallowed, then breathed in deeply, packing down emotion and affecting a blank look. “Fine. I’m not drunk.” His words sounded monotonous even to his own ears, and he didn’t expect Max to buy them for even a second without trying to follow up.

“Are you alright?” he asked again.

Ash nodded, but there was a buzzing in his ears, and a thick heat surrounding him. There were so many things wrong, but he could handle it, he always handled it, this wasn’t a problem.

Except Max was looking at him with pity in his eyes and that? That was too much. That was unacceptable that was—

He blinked, eyes suddenly watery. “Just go away,” Ash said, hating the way his voice hitched. He turned back to the sink and made a show of putting the toothpaste back in its holder. “I’m fine. I need to shower.”

There was a moment then, when nothing happened, when the silence became a roar inside his head and when he thought he would burst with the agony of secrets kept far too long. But then Max’s arms were around him, steady and comforting and safe, and he could breathe again. He grimaced, trying to contain everything, but one tear fell, dripping silently to the counter top.

“I missed you,” Max murmured in his ear, then ducked his head down, nosing at Ash’s throat, at his shoulder, lips warm and wet against skin.

Ash shivered once, then tilted his head to Max’s leaning his cheek against Max’s hair. He looked up to the mirror again—saw Max watching him the same way, quiet, and serene. _Safe._

_Safe._

_Safe._

“I need to shower,” Ash whispered. His breathing was erratic, his skin too warm—

Max kissed up his neck, stopping to tongue at the shell of Ash’s ear. “I missed you,” he said again.

Ash turned to him and threaded his fingers together behind Max’s neck, rising on the balls of his feet. He didn’t say anything, instead he just touched the tip of his nose against Max’s. Then he began to undress, hooking his hands in the hem of the blue sweater and pulling it over his head, then untucking the t-shirt underneath. He never let his gaze fall from Max’s—and as he began to uncuff and unzip his black slacks, his hands began to tremble.

Reaching out, Max laid a hand on top of Ash’s, and leaned forward to kiss him. It was only the barest brush of his lips, but it sent shimmering electricity through Ash’s body. Max helped him out of his pants, placing his hands gently on Ash’s hips and pushing down. Then, as Ash stepped from his slacks, Max tucked his fingers into the waistband of Ash’s briefs and helped slide those down also. He leaned in for another kiss, and Ash felt himself chasing the taste of him, stumbling forward to maintain contact.

Instead, Max pulled away. He let a finger slide down the curve of Ash’s arm, then leaned over, pulled open the glass door, and turned on the shower.

The sudden rush of water drowned out the sound of Ash’s heartbeat, and he stilled, watching Max strip down in front of him. There was something so erotic about the older man, the way his tanned body looked under the bright glow of the bathroom light, the way he stood in front of Ash, naked, and confident.

“Is this alright?” Max murmured.

His pulse was quick—Ash could see his heartbeat throb at the vein in his neck as Max clenched his teeth together. That tension in his jaw was the only hint of his nervousness, though. His cock hung half-hard between his legs, and Ash felt his own erection grow in response.

They stood like this a full minute. Not saying a word. Not moving. Just watching each other’s bodies against the roar of the shower. There was a flush building against the skin of Max’s chest, and Ash watched as it rose, moving from his neck to his cheeks. He finally nodded, in answer to Max’s question, tried slowly to speak it, to whisper yes, but nothing slipped free from his lips.

Max swallowed, then reached out a hand.

Ash took it, fingers threading through Max’s, and then he stepped in, letting the hot water fall against his back. Max followed him, and Ash turned, pushing into him once more, pressing his lips against Max’s throat, then his chin.

“Ash,” Max murmured. He cupped a hand around the curve of Ash’s jaw and bent down, kissing him again. “Let me wash you,” he whispered against Ash’s lips.

Laughing nervously, Ash backed up a bit, until his back hit the cold granite of the shower wall. He wasn’t sure what to say. What to do. “I…”

“Let me?” Max asked again.

The question was so soft, barely audible against the roar of the shower head, and Max looked so earnest, so careful. The pity wasn’t no longer present, instead his pupils were blown wide with want. Ash wanted to trace the curve of his brow, he wanted to be held by Max’s strong arms, and yet…

There was something inside him, twisting and churning, screaming for release. It fought within him, telling him to get on his knees, telling him to press up against Max and wrap his hand around Max’s thick cock, telling him that without sex, he was nothing, without sex…

Max would no longer want him.

He could feel tears again, threatening to spill over, and he jerked his head to the side before Max could see. “I don’t understand,” Ash finally said, words thick and slow.

Instead of speaking, Max gently lay a hand on Ash’s shoulder, turning him to face the wall. There was a brief moment where he took his hand away, and Ash could hear the click of the shower gel as it was opened. Then Max was back, leaning into him and swirling circles down his back with a washcloth. The smell of the soap permeated the air—vanilla, with the barest hint of bitter almond—and Ash found himself relaxing into the touch, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cold of the wall.

“Good,” Max said, continuous movement as he scrubbed the gel into Ash’s skin. “Just like that.”

He reached lower then, letting the washcloth fall down the dip of Ash’s back and dip down to his thighs. “Max,” Ash whispered. He was growing hard with it, with the careful ministrations, and he stopped himself short from reaching down and touching his own cock.

Max grabbed his wrist, and carefully placed it back against the granite. “Not yet,” he said.

Ash could feel the stubble on his face against his neck, he could feel the way Max buried his nose into the curve of his collarbone, peppering him with kisses as the washcloth dipped lower and lower. Eventually, Max worked to the front of him, running it between his thighs, carefully stroking against Ash’s erection. But he didn’t stop there. He didn’t reach forward, or attempt anything else, despite the fact that Ash could feel Max’s cock hard against his leg. Instead, Max worked up his belly, up his chest, across each arm.

It was heavenly.

It was…terrifying.

Ash had never been so intimate with someone, had never let someone see him this raw, this unhinged, without delivering something in return. “I can blow you,” he said against the wall.

Max froze, and the words echoed hollowly throughout the shower. Cringing, Ash bit his lower lip, then tried again. “I mean…I mean, I can repay you.”

“Hey.”

Ash didn’t move, just pushed his forehead even harder against the wall and tried not to think about the thick, coiling shame that was puddling in his stomach.

“Ash. Look at me?”

Max paused for a moment, hooking the washcloth onto a metal bar on the far wall. Then he pulled at Ash’s shoulder, forcing him to turn. “You never need to repay me,” he said. “Never.”

“But…” the word fell unwittingly from his mouth and Ash looked down. Max was still hard, still wet from the shower, all the lines and curves of muscle defined in the bright light of the bathroom.

“Hey,” Max said, bending his head down, their foreheads touching. “Never, okay?”

Ash closed his eyes, then nodded, the smallest, most imperceptible movement he could possibly make. “Okay.”

“Come on.” Reaching past Ash, Max shut off the water. He opened the shower door and reached out, grabbing two fluffy purple towels. One, he wrapped around his midsection, not caring that his hair was plastered to his face and neck, not caring that his chest shone with water droplets. The other, he wrapped around Ash, then slowly began to rub him dry.

Ash’s brain wasn’t working. It wasn’t computing, it wasn’t calculating, it was just fuzzy and warm. He wanted to sleep. The events of the day seemed hollow, only shells of things, and none of it was capable of touching him anymore. He let Max dry him completely, then allowed himself to be led to the bed. Max pulled back the covers, and nodded at him, and Ash tucked his legs under. The sheets were so soft against his bare skin, and as he lay back against the pillow, he breathed in the scent of the body wash, relaxing even further. “Max?” he asked, voice quiet and subdued.

“Right here,” Max answered, and then he was. He was slipping into bed, next to Ash, and suddenly their bodies were touching again, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Ash buried his nose into Max’s throat and breathed deeply. He smelled clean, and he was soft, and he was _everything_.

“Ash?”

He blinked his eyes open, exhaustion making them heavy and slow. “ _Mmm?_ ”

Max curled an arm around him and pulled him even closer, then he kissed him on the top of his head. “Feeling better?”

“ _Mmm._ ”

He’d forgotten how to speak.

He’d forgotten how to think.

All he wanted was to lay here forever, listening to Max’s heartbeat, loud and solid and safe.

_Tomorrow you’ll be different,_ the voice whispered.

Ash closed his eyes.

_Tomorrow you’ll be changed, you’ll be dirty again. He won’t want you. He’ll never want you like that…_

Groaning, Ash pushed away from Max ever so slightly. Then he reached out and grabbed Max’s hand, bringing it close to his face. He could smell the body wash on Max’s fingers, and he carefully pressed a kiss into the open palm of his hand, then to his wrist, then…

He paused. “Why don’t you cover them?”

Max grunted in surprise, trying to pull his hand back.

Ash wouldn’t let him. “No,” he whispered, kissing again at the beginning of Max’s wrist, and then again further up, along the thick rows of white scar tissue. He blinked, looking up at Max through his thick eyelashes, watching the way Max bit his bottom lip in discomfort. “I’m just curious. Most people try to hide it. You don’t.”

Max tried to pull away again, and this time Ash let him, letting go gently enough that his fingers whispered along the flesh one last time. “It’s not that I don’t want to hide it,” Max said. His voice sounded far away, as though it had fallen into disrepair, as though it were only the memory of speaking that allowed him to make sound at all. “It’s just that…that I don’t care.”

“You don’t care what people think.”

“No. Not that. That I just can’t find it in me to cover up something that…huh.” He let out the barest breath, then rolled onto his back so that he was looking straight at the ceiling. “I guess I just figured, why bother? I guess… I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same. That’s always going to be a part of me, and most people think it’s this deep, shameful past, or secret but…I guess it feels like neither. It just feels like me.”

“Like it’s worthless to change something that was always there in the first place, and will never leave.”

Max squinted at him with one eye, then a slow smile began to spread. “I think that’s it exactly, kid.”

“Maybe don’t call me kid while we’re lying in bed, naked together.”

Laughing, Max rolled back towards him again, reaching out and tucking a bit of stray hair behind Ash’s ear. “Deal.”

“So what was it like? Did it hurt? Was it vivid and colorful or just like…sinking into grey.” He reached out and stroked the scars again, lingering on the puckers of flesh, letting his fingers stroke divots into Max’s skin over and over and over.

“It wasn’t really anything. Just something that seemed right at the time. Something that might seem right again.” Max shuddered for a brief second, his hands stiffening against Ash’s. “Don’t…fuck. That seems awfully dark and twisted. I don’t mean it to be that way and…I had a therapist but…”

“Therapists are shit.”

“No,” Max shook his head. “No, they really aren’t. I think I didn’t find the right fit, and it’s difficult. When you reach a certain age? You have to make space for this sort of thing. It becomes one more item in a never ending list of things to deal with. And it just wasn’t a priority. I have issues up here,” he tapped his head in example, “but part of it is that they make me passionate, and they make me see things in a light that few do, and…I suppose I worry a bit that if I solve every issue with myself then what will I have left? Will I still be able to capture images the same way? Will life resonate the same within me?”

“That’s bullshit,” Ash said. He grabbed at Max’s hand, holding it steady, forcing Max to look at him. “That’s all bullshit. Your passion and artistry is very different from your mental health. One still exists without the other. So if the reason you stopped seeing a therapist, or stopped prioritizing it is because you’re afraid your art will suffer? That’s just utter bullshit.”

“Spoken like a true mental health professional I see,” Max said wryly, but he still smiled. “I thought you said therapists were shit.”

“Most therapists are shit,” Ash amended, trying not to growl in irritation.

Max just watched him, eyes flickering down to Ash’s own unscarred wrists and then back to his eyes again. “I agree. On my good days, I agree. Running helps a lot. So does…not drinking. Not fucking beautiful boys in the bathroom of a bar”

It might have been offensive, but Max followed it up by leaning close and kissing Ash with so much love and so much passion that Ash wanted nothing more than to freeze time, to stay like this forever. Max tasted of the minty toothpaste he used, and just the smallest bit of whiskey, and it was intoxicating. Ash opened his mouth ever so slightly, letting Max’s tongue in, and he reached up, cupping a hand around Max’s neck, pulling him closer—

“Hey,” Max whispered against Ash’s lips. “It’s late.”

It was. The clock was already stretching out past midnight, and despite Ash’s predilection for late night shenanigans, he was exhausted. His body was warm, like pulled taffy, languid and stretched and perfect, and so he let Max draw back. “I have an appointment tomorrow,” Ash murmured.

“Oh?”

“I probably won’t be back until late again.” _And he won’t want you anymore,_ said the voice, evil and oily, and elongated, stretching through his body. _Whore,_ it chanted. _Whore, whore, whore._

“Want me to have dinner ready?”

_Whore_. Ash affected his best smirk, letting his tongue out just enough to wet the outline of his lips. “I want you to fuck me,” he said. “When I get back. I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh...”

Max sounded surprised, and maybe a bit taken aback, but his cheeks flushed pink with the words, and Ash knew he was already thinking about it.

_Good. Make him punish you._ Ash shuddered, then turned away, trying to disguise it as simple movement. “Good,” he mumbled. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Ash.”

The mansion stood, cold and haughty, looking over the entirety of Hollywood. It wasn’t up against the beach, as so many prized mansions seemed to be—rather, it was tucked in amongst the trees, far up on a hill, miles from anyone else. This took talent to achieve, in a city that was growing by the tens of thousands every single year. It was stone faced, and it had not one but three different infinity pools surrounding the property. There was also a guest house near the back, that as far as Ash knew, wasn’t used for anything at all.

There were no cleaning staff allowed when the homeowner was present. No gardening, no pool cleaning, no nothing. This made it easier to keep the activities that happened behind beautiful redwood doors secret.

Ash had the Uber drop him off over a mile from the place, then walked up the private drives, careful not to appear too conspicuous. He looked every bit a model, from the tight acid wash jeans, to the thin, black cotton v-neck shirt. His hair was styled, because that’s what Foxx liked, and he wore the barest spritz of an orange based cologne that cost thousands, because that’s what Foxx liked.

And as he rang the doorbell, he knelt down on the small, impeccably neat doormat that read ‘ _the best therapist has fur and four legs_ ’, careful to make sure that his knees were well within the black framing of the mat.

Because that’s what Foxx liked.

Then he waited.

Sometimes, this took hours. Other times, only minutes. It was hard to say, and hard to predict exactly what sort of mood he might find Foxx in at any given time, and being that today’s visit was a ‘make-up’ of sorts, a rescheduling of a colossal fuck-up on his part, he closed his eyes and began to count his breaths, getting ready for the long haul and trying not to panic.

It was only fifteen minutes, surprising really, considering what Ash had done. But the door opened, and Foxx met him with a cordial, albeit cold, smile. “Why Ash,” he murmured. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Ash didn’t say a word, just watched that spot on his knees where the jeans were shredded enough to let the pink skin show through.

“Well?” Foxx asked. “Up.”

And Ash stood. “I apologize for missing my last two sessions.” He spoke confidently, trying to hide the edge of anxiety that was battering within him.

“I hear you were busy.”

“Yes.”

Foxx held out a hand, indicating that Ash should enter, and so he did, brushing past him into the entryway of the home. “I have a modeling gig next week,” he said casually. “Starts in three days.”

“No you don’t.”

Blinking, Ash kept walking, trying not let his hands tremble. “I do, it’s—”

“No you don’t. Your father told me you’ll be completely free for the next three weeks.”

Ash paused. If Dino had actually told him that, then he needed to go along with it and go along with it now. If he’d actually told him that then this was going to be far worse than Ash was prepared for, but that was neither here nor there. “Uhh…he might have misremembered…”

“No.”

Foxx’s voice was suddenly very loud against the excessive quiet of the mansion and Ash fought the urge to kneel and beg forgiveness. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Better,” Foxx said. He circled Ash like a predator, wrinkling his nose as though he’d smelt something sour. “You look different.” he finally said with a frown. “You’ve gained weight.”

This was the second time in twenty-four hours that his weight had been commented on and it made Ash curl in on himself like he was a wounded animal. “I’m sorry,” he said, same as he’d said to Golzine.

“Don’t be. Just fix it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Foxx finally stopped circling long enough to cross his arms and regarded Ash with animosity tempered with desire. Lust.

Ash was nauseous already.

“How’s your head been?” Smiling—a sickly sweet thing—Foxx reached for his chin and grasped it between forefinger and thumb. “You’ve been taking your medication, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.” Ash couldn’t look up at him, not until he was told to, not unless he wanted the punishment to be worse.

“Mood swings? How are you rating your days?”

Gritting his teeth, Ash worked very hard not to yank his head out of that grasp. If Foxx wanted to play therapist with him, that was his prerogative. He needed to go along with it. “Better,” he said quietly. “Bad are at four. Good are a seven.” This was patently untrue—good were a 9 or a 10; he was invincible on those days. Able to fly, able to do anything he wanted. Chris liked to come out then and play. Chris liked to control him a bit, to make poor decisions, but at the root of it all was Ash and endorphins, feeling fantastic. And bad…well. Bad were a series of suicide attempts–each one more desperate than the last. Each one perfectly covered up by Golzine. No one knew. No one could know.

“Good,” Foxx said. “Look at me.”

Ash looked up, right into those cold blue eyes, that severe nose, that jagged slash of a grin.

“Come.”

Foxx turned then and walked through the house, passing the stairs that led up to the bedrooms, and stopping, at a benign white door, set off from the second living room. The coldness started in his chest, spreading to his arms and legs and Ash had to press his lips together hard to tamp down on the whimper that wanted to escape. On good appointments, he followed Foxx upstairs. On bad…

_You knew this would happen_ , Chris said. _You knew it, and you still fucked up. You deserve this, you whore._

“Come on, then,” Foxx said, amicable, friendly even. He opened the door.

Ash followed him down the steps.

“…does he need help?”

“…hey, kid, hey!”

Ash looked up into the wary eyes of a stranger, who was holding fingers in front of his nose and whipping them back and forth in steady, nauseating motion. “Stop,” he moaned, trying to throw a hand up.

It hurt. Everything hurt. “Just stop,” he moaned again.

“…kid?”

The guy wouldn’t get out of his fucking face. “ ‘m fine,” Ash mumbled.

“Okay…you sure? You look like you got mugged. Want me to call someone?”

“I’m fine. Drank too much. Bar fight.” He pushed himself off from the wall he was slumped against to illustrate, but immediately fell back again. “Fuck,” Ash murmured.

“You—”

“No, I’m good, okay? Thanks. Sorry.”

The guy at least backed off, looked at him for a moment as though seriously considering calling the police, then shrugged and walked back out of the small alleyway to the busy street.

“Fuck,” Ash groaned.

He didn’t remember anything, there was only a giant Foxx-sized hole after arriving at the mansion, walking in, and seeing the door to the basement. And now he was here. Somewhere. On a busy street, leaning against a wall and in so much fucking pain.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, phone. Check…phone.” He reached over to his pocket, trying to ignore the burning in his shoulders that suggested…

_Rope?_ The voice helpfully suggested. _Or maybe that winch and pulley system he has down there!_

“Fuck off,” Ash mumbled, pulling the phone from his pocket, but the roiling nausea just got worse. He sank on his knees, trying desperately not to puke all over his shoes. It took him a few times to correctly tap in his passcode, but he managed, finally pulling up his recent calls list.

_Shorter._

_Shorter._

_Max._

It was a no-brainer. He didn’t want Max picking him up like this, he needed to retain some modicum of control in that situation or they were both fucked. And so he dialed Shorter, and listened to the phone ring, and ring, and ring, and—

“ _Yo. It’s me. Leave a message.”_

“Fuck!” Ash cried, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to breathe. Even that hurt, and when he reached up to prod gently at his face, he realized that one eye was already swollen and most likely black. “Fuck,” he murmured. His finger hovered above Max’s number for a moment, and then two, and then he gave in, tapping it.

“Hey, Ash.”

He’d picked up before even the first ring, and suddenly Ash’s breath was tight in his throat, suddenly he didn’t know how to breathe let alone speak.

“Ash?”

“I…uh…I need you to pick me up?”

“Oh! Oh…alright. Umm, I thought you were gonna be later. I’m actually visiting with Michael. Gonna leave soon but I’m kind of far away. How soon do you need?”

“Oh. Nevermind.”

“No, wait, Ash!”

Ash jerked up, realizing that his head had already started to nod throughout the brief conversation. “Uh, yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, look, it’s fine. I’m calling you an Uber. You drunk or something?”

“Yeah.” It seemed the easiest to go with, and, to be quite honest, his head _hurt_ , and his brain wasn’t quite keeping up with everything yet the way it usually did.

“Okay. Just tell me where you are.”

Max was so matter of fact and so…calm. And he wasn’t coming because he was going to see his _family_ , his _real family_ , and Ash was still nothing. Ash wanted to start crying, but he pressed a hand to his mouth, hard, and fought the urge. “Uh, I…hold on.” He muted the call, then stood—an act that took far longer than it had any right to. His shoulders were screaming, and he tried very hard not to think about how much he ached in between his legs. About how his jeans were wet. He made it to the entrance of the alley and looked out at the busy intersection, then clicked the green phone button again. “Okay,” he said, trying not to let his voice waver. “Okay, I’m at the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and Sweetzer.”

“Sunset Boulevard. How…poetic of you,” Max said.

Ash could practically see his grin as he said it, and it made him feel minutely better for a just a second, before _family_ hissed through his head again and another wave of nausea took him. He barely had enough warning to turn before he was puking his guts into the idyllic petunia beds of the restaurant on the corner.

“Ash? Ash!”

Wiping his mouth, and glancing surreptitiously around to make sure no one was running at him for desecrating their property, Ash put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry.”

“Ash, do you…fuck, do you need me to come get you?”

_Yes_ , he wanted to say. _Yes, please come get me and please wrap your arms around me and please tell me everything is going to be alright. Please tell me you love me._ God, he was pathetic. “No,” he answered. His mouth tasted mostly like puke, but a little like champagne, and he had a sudden realization that there was a very real possibility that Foxx had drugged him. “Umm, just…Uber. Yeah. I’ll be here.” He didn’t listen for Max’s answer, just hung up, pushed the phone back into his pocket, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.

The Uber driver was friendly enough, despite Ash being a fucking mess. He didn’t talk too much, just offered back a pack of wet wipes when Ash assured him that he was just fine, just got into a bar fight. It was a forty minute drive back to Max’s place, and Ash spent most of it with his forehead pressed against the cool of the car window, picking at that blackness, that hole inside of him where memory should lie, and trying to peel away something from the day.

It was only 9 p.m. He’d only been with Foxx about five hours. This was a shorter time frame than usual, and it made him incredibly nervous, not knowing why exactly it was that Foxx let him go when he did.

When the Uber driver pulled up to Max’s, Ash tried to pay him, but he just shook his head.

“Already covered,” he said, with a friendly grin. “Your friend tips well.”

Well, that explained the willingness to let Ash in the car looking and smelling like he did. He nodded his thanks, then waited for the car to pull down the street before letting himself in through the garage keypad. Max, true to his word, wasn’t home, and Ash found himself pleased by that fact. He forced down two large cups of water, before ascending the stairs, grabbing new clothes out of the small dresser in the guest room, and locking himself in the bathroom.

Seeing what Foxx had done didn’t make it any easier. He was a mess.

His right eye was black and blue, swollen and hot to touch. His cheek was bruised under that, and his lips looked swollen and red. Worse than that were the looping robe burn marks around his neck—black and purple and green. There was no good way to disguise it. Either he was going to be housebound for the next few weeks while he waited for them to fade, or he was going to be wearing a lot of very stylish turtlenecks.

Foxx rarely got this out of control. Rape was one thing (if that’s what this even was) but leaving marks in publicly visible places was usually off limits. Ash swallowed, then flinched, surprised by how much it hurt all of a sudden—as though seeing it reflected back at him suddenly made it more real.

He peeled off his pants, ignoring the way they stuck to him, wet and clinging. They smelled entirely of liquor, but as he stripped them off, he could see a few dark stains that bled through the denim. He had a bit more of a warning this time when his stomach rebelled, so he was able to get the toilet seat up before he puked again, heaving over and over until nothing but bile came up.

“Fuck,” he moaned, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

He felt awful. And somehow, he was going to have to come up with a story to explain it all to Max.

_Max._

Did he tell Foxx about him? Did he slip up? Did he tell Foxx more than Max...did he mention Dino, did he…”

No. It wasn’t possible. If he’d fucked up that badly, then he wouldn’t still be here. Still, his breath was starting to come in short pants and gasps and Ash fucking recognized the start of a panic attack when he saw one. “Fuck,” he murmured again, reaching across to turn on the shower and step in. The spray was cold at first, causing his skin to pebble up in goosebumps, causing everything to hurt even more, but it didn’t matter, he didn’t care, he deserved this and everything that came after.

“Whore _,”_ Chris whispered.

“I know,” Ash said.

“Whore, whore, whore.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, get out of my head you fucking—”

“I protected you,” Chris singsonged inside his head. “I keep you safe, I keep you alive—”

“Fuck you!” Ash screamed, punching the granite with his bare fist as hard as he could. “Fuck you!”

“You need to breathe,” Chris said, and then the tendrils were pushing out, and Ash’s vision was fuzzy.

“No,” Ash moaned. “No, I can’t again, no—”

“You need to breathe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow AgentCoop on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
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> -Updates will come every 2-3 weeks-


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